


Cursed Queen of Angmar, The

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Kings, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Canon - Solves frequent reader complaint, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - OOC to good purpose, Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Dangerous topic w/satisfying end, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Surprising reversals, Plot - Tear-jerker, Romance, Subjects - Art, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Economics, Subjects - Explores obscure facts, Subjects - Geography, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Subjects - Medical/Healing, Subjects - Military, Subjects - Plants/Environment, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Experimental, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Mythic/Poetic, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2003-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 52
Words: 105,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of  Angmar.  And she's cursed, too.  Work in progress.  Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes.  Yes, it's now finished!!!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. AUTHOR'S NOTES--The Mystery Man

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

A note from the author

 

 

Pronunciation: Ariashal is pronounced ARRA-Shawl; the i is silent.

The names of the Kings of Rhudaur and Cardolan were never set down by Tolkien; all the names herein are based on those of other Dunedain.

Imrahil and Adrahil are fairly common Numenorean names. Zimraphel was the name of the last Numenorean Queen; her name means "lover of jewels".

Khamul is the only Nazgul whose name was specifically set down by Tolkien. However, there are three other named individuals who are likely candidates: Gothmog, Herumor, and Fuinor. Gothmog is identified in ROTK as the Lieutenant of Minas Morgul; therefore he is likely to be a Nazgul, as it is highly unlikely that anyone else would be entrusted with so important a position.

Herumor (dark lord ) and Fuinor (night/dark/shadow lord) are identified as two of Sauon's Numenorean lieutenants in the SA. Both are credited with bringing their Southern kingdoms into the cult of Sauron. For them to do so, they would have to be very powerful in their kingdoms, if not the actual rulers; and knowing that Sauron corrupted kings, it is again likely that these two are also Nazgul.

As for the actual identity of the Witch-King himself, there are many theories. Without knowing anything concrete, we can assume he was Numenorean; we can also assume he was neither of the named lieutenants. A careful reading of certain chapters of this story will divulge enough clues for the curious reader to recognize his original name.

 

The man known as the Witch-King ruled Angmar for over 600 years. In that time, no one-- not the Istari, not the Elves-- realized that he was indeed the Lord of the Nazgul. During that same time frame, they recognised that Dol Guldur was inhabited by a "necromancer" and some Nazgul. But they never seem to have connected the king at Carn Dum with the evil in Mirkwood.

Obviously the Witch-King went to great lengths to hide his identity. It's not just that Carn Dum is at the ends of Middle Earth; spies were everywhere, and if he had behaved in a manner that suggested he was anything other than a normal man, someone would have noticed, and at least brought it to the attention of the Elves and Istari. But until the Battle of Fornost in TA 1975, where he was defeated by the combined forces of Elves and men, no one knew exactly who--or what--he was.  
  
His neighbors considered him evil, although Rhudaur was only too willing to make an alliance with him. They would not have done so willingly if they had known that they were dealing with the head Nazgul. Indeed, they would have quickly allied themselves with Cardolan against the greater threat. That they did not unite with their sister kingdom, but in fact fought Cardolan at every turn, makes it clear that they believed they were joined with a regular man.

What made them think that? They must have treated him in the same manner as they would any other enemy king, and such treatment must have been reciprocal. The usual exchanges must have taken place--gifts, embassies, letters, marriages.

That no one connected Dol Guldur with Carn Dum is intriguing. Perhaps there was an elaborate message system that allowed all correspondence to go undetected for centuries. We know that, without the Ruling Ring, Sauron's control over his minions was diminished. He could not reach them except by usual, non-psychic methods. But no evidence for such contact was ever found.

At this point of the Third Age, the Nazgul still held their rings. The Witch-King was the most independant, even when Sauron held his ring; the textual evidence, while sketchy, indicates that he was not a mindless slave. It is quite possible that he had no love for Sauron, resented his entrapment, and used Sauron's relative weakness as an excuse to strike out on his own.

We know that he took the fall of Angmar personally--not as a general of Sauron, but as the defeated ruler of his own kingdom. Perhaps Angmar was not so much a tribute to Sauron as an act of defiance.  
  



	2. PROLOGUE--The Ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

  
PROLOGUE The Ruins

During the reign of King Elessar Telcontar, expeditions were sent to the North to see which, if any, of the ancient lands of Arnor could be reclaimed. While exploring the lands around Fornost, a handful of hardy individuals decided to brave the ruins of Angmar, and to see what remained of the citadel at Carn Dum.  
  
The land itself was unpromising, even inhospitable; they wondered among themselves just what sort of man would choose to carve a kingdom out of this wasteland. They knew, of course, that Angmar had been built by the Lord of the Nazgul; but even so, they found the amount of work needed to do so daunting.  
  
From a distance the red rock city of Carn Dum seemed a complete ruin. As they drew closer they realized that the city itself was beyond hope; roofs had long since collapsed, walls eroded away, roads crumbled. The great foundries that had manufactured the steel and weapons of Angmar lay silent. Heaps of slag and cinder left from the mining and smelting still scarred the land. The men were careful to avoid the cavernous openings of the mines and forges, well aware that orcs and trolls had once inhabited them, and might still lurk below.  
  
But the great red castle itself was relatively intact. The main gates had been forced by the alliance that brought down the Witch-king, and no one had ever tried to replace them; with the Nazgul gone, the castle and its city was soon abandoned.  
  
Cautiously they explored the halls nearest the entrance. Most of the walls in the ground floor were still stained from the fires set by the victors, the only remnants of the battle for Carn Dum.

Where once ferocious fighting had taken place, now was heard only wind and bird. Small animals had long since made their nests in halls that had once held soldiers and guards. Finding nothing, the men climbed over some loose rock and entered the courtyard.  
  
Without human intervention, the courtyard gardens had long since overgrown, the delicate imported plants replaced by the hardier local scrub. The great fountain in the center still held water, though its jets were long silenced. They marveled at the ruined mosaics, both on the ground and on the walls, and the remains of a great clock set high on the wall. They searched in vain for a flash of gold, a bit of jewelry or coin from a body long since decayed; but nothing caught their eye. Everything had long since disappeared.

An arcade ran around the courtyard, sheltering a flight of stairs. Upstairs they found the main chambers to be in reasonably good condition. With a few exceptions the windows were gone; those pieces that remained hinted at the brilliance of what had been. Everything even remotely portable had been taken by the victors. But the inlaid floors, though dirty and cracked, survived, along with faded murals and elegant coffered ceilings.  
  
On another floor they discovered a pair of suites. Here the main rooms were octagonal, and the floors were inlaid with elaborate runes and symbols which even the dullest of them recognized as magical. The inlays themselves were of precious metals, but no one had dared pry them loose in the past, and no one was about to do so now. In the sizable rooms beyond they found antechambers, baths, balconies. In one of the baths they discovered that the taps still worked. They wondered at the hydraulics, still functioning after all these millennia; such marvels were unheard of in most towns. Yet it existed, here at the ends of Middle-earth.

One room's door was still sealed, its outer edges covered with faded symbols. This must have been the Witch-king's lair, where he created new terrors to unleash on the world. Had not Glorfindel explored these very rooms? He had been unwilling, or unable, to open this door. If the great and wise were reluctant to do so, then surely, they reasoned, this small band of mercenaries could not be blamed for leaving it in peace.

Nearby they entered a huge chamber, its lofty, elegant windows and shelves carved from the rich red stone. This was all that remained of the glorious library of Carn Dum, fabled as one of the finest in Middle Earth. Its contents were spirited away by the Witch-king and reinstalled at Minas Morgul. Even now their southern compatriots were delving into the treasures hidden in that fortress. They wondered if Minas Morgul was as magnificent inside as Carn Dum had been. Whatever else could be said of him, the Lord of the Nazgul had had splendid taste.

After wresting aside some debris, they found a balcony overlooking a walled garden. The balcony itself was delicately carved from the living rock of the mountain, so that it was sheltered from the ceaseless winds. While idly kicking aside some of the foliage and debris that had drifted onto the floor, they uncovered a mosaic surrounding a slab of red granite.

Legend held that the Witch-king had assembled a hoard of jewels greater than that of any dragon; it was said that he had kept much of the regalia from drowned Numenor, and that he freely added the gold and treasures of others whenever he conquered a city. The alliance that had hunted him down searched in vain for this treasure. King Earnur was keen to retrieve it, but his enemy had been too clever. Nor had the elves done any better; they too had been unable to discover the location of the fabulous hoard.

Had they been able to find that which eluded all others? Excited, they scraped away the last of the dirt to reveal the entirety of the red slab. It was engraved; the letters were eroded, but after some work they were able to decipher the bulk of the inscription.

ARIASHAL  
  
DAUGHTER of RHUDAUR  
  
QUEEN of ANGMAR

Now they were mystified. None of them had ever even heard of a Queen in Carn Dum. Granted, King Earnur and his allies had burned most of the records of Angmar, destroying the kingdom's history. Probably all records of its queens had perished in that conflagration.  
  
But why would the Nazgul want, or even need, a queen? Were they not immortal, so long as their rings held power? Yes, once they had been men, but were they not now inhuman? Granted, the decoration here at Carn Dum showed that the Witch-king--or whoever advised him--had impeccable taste. Still, he raised trolls and orcs, rode bizarre, flying things, and wielded unholy magic. What woman of Rhudaur would willingly ally herself with such a creature?

Perhaps, one of them reasoned, this was not a tomb at all, but the hoard. Perhaps the name referred to a fabulous gem, or to the trove as a whole. If they could open it they would know. If the treasure was one hundredth of what the rumors said, they would be helping repay Gondor for the horrific costs of the war. And if they kept some baubles for themselves, King Elessar would not complain.

They unpacked their tools and set to work. One of them noticed more of the magic runes, but the others, too inflamed with lust for jewels, paid him no mind. Chisel was set against polished granite, and hammer let fly.  
  
Suddenly the men who held the tools cried out in pain, toppling onto the ground. A thick black cloud, so black that it seemed to draw the very light out of the sun, welled from the tomb. With it came a high-pitched screech, a sound that carried before it cold, and dread; and above all a terror that held no reason, only the mindless urge to flee.

Desperate, terrified, they fled the balcony and the castle. The men who had attempted to breach the tomb staggered after the others, their arms numbed by the deadly cold. Whatever the Witch-king had buried there, he had wanted kept safe.

Fleeing the dead city, the men crossed the wide roads and ruined houses until they found a breach in the wall. They scrambled through to the open lands, abandoning the city to wolves and ghosts. They could report that Carn Dum was reclaimable, and whoever reclaimed it would have the privilege of exploring the secrets of its magically-sealed rooms. None of them had the expertise needed to counter such spells, and without it trying to open the tomb was sheer folly. Best to leave it unmolested.

High on her balcony, shielded from the winds, secure in the magic of the Witch-king, the Queen of Angmar slept.  



	3. The Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

**The Curse**

Ariashal was cursed.

No one was ever certain when it had happened, or why. It was never clear if it was a curse directed at her personally, or if it was meant to discredit her entire family. Regardless, it was she who bore the brunt of it, and it was she who was the agent of its actions.

Ariashal was the youngest child, and only daughter, of Turabar, King of Rhudaur. Her grandfather had managed to depose the old Dunedain family, and her own father had waged ceaseless war against the neighboring kingdom of Cardolan. Every summer her father and brothers, uncles and cousins, would ride out to do battle with the Cardolani forces; and every fall they would return, with stories of small towns captured or men killed. They never really managed to do much more than harass Cardolan; they lacked the manpower to seize control of so large an area. All winter long she would listen as they planned how they would run their summer campaign, and lament how little they could do with the army they had. Eventually one of them would mutter about what they needed, and what they would have to do to improve their chances of conquest.

And so, as soon as she was old enough, Ariashal was married.  
  
Her first husband was a young lord, a man whose father held lands close to the Weather Hills. She was barely thirty, young for a Dunedain bride; he was only a few years older. She was sent off with jewels and dresses, promises to bear many children, and the hope of a decent alliance.  
  
Her new family distrusted her from the start. They too were Dunedain, and they wondered aloud if, perhaps, there might not be some-- _lesser_ \-- men in her background. After all, Rhudaur was small, and shared land with the Hill folk. Perhaps, they sniffed, just perhaps there was a touch of -- _impure_ \-- blood in her veins. Not enough to completely disqualify her from the ranks of High Men, but still.

For several long years she endured their sanctimonious taunts and cold silences. Her husband listened to them, too. What had started out promisingly was soon strained. He was really his mother's son; he spent more time doing her bidding than pleasing his wife. When Ariashal failed to produce children the whispers turned into full-fledged insults. She spent many hours in her private apartment, lonely, miserable, sewing and reading, hoping for deliverance.

She got her wish. One late winter afternoon, during a hunt, her husband foolishly wandered out onto some ice while chasing a deer. The ice broke, plunging him into the deadly water. His body was not recovered for several days.

Her father-in-law soon spoke to her. With neither husband nor family to keep her there, he saw no point in preventing her return to her ancestral home. She managed to conceal her delight. It took an indecently short amount of time for them to pack her up and send her home.

 

A few years later she married again. Her next husband was from the Hill folk. She was dismayed at the thought of marrying a Lesser Man, but her father and brothers insisted. He was an old tribal leader, used to the harsh life of the wilderness. Ariashal was stunned to find that her new accommodations were nothing more than a bed at the end of a long hall, with a curtain drawn in front of it for privacy. The rest of the family slept outside the curtain. At night she could hear their every move, and they hers.  
  
The Hill folk had a much rougher diet than she was used to; she was often ill. Their women ridiculed her for her delicate constitution. They sneered at her more patrician sensibilities. For her part she saw no charm in living in a long, drafty building with the whole family, a huge fire blazing away in the middle of the floor, and domestic animals freely wandering in.  
  
But her husband was indulgent of her. He was kind to her. For he was no longer young, and their marriage was lacking. After three years with no pregnancy, the eldest of his nephews began to insinuate that Ariashal needed to be replaced.

Things came to a head during the annual feast to celebrate the harvest. Mead and ale were flowing freely, and the young man openly challenged Ariashal's right to be there. Her husband angrily drew his sword.

The fight was furious. They traded blows, slashing into each other, spattering blood across the floor. Finally the younger man plunged his blade into his uncle's chest, and it was over.

Ariashal left within the hour.

 

Her third husband came from within Rhudaur. He was a member of the former royal family, and only agreed to the union in the hope that he would thus be able to regain the throne. He came to her home, consummated the marriage, and left within weeks, ostensibly to fight Cardolan. The next time she heard of him, he had taken ill with fever; he died despite the best efforts of the healers.

  
The market for husbands was now considerably smaller. Dunedain might be longer lived than other men, but even so, she was getting older. Fewer people were willing to gamble a son on a woman who had borne no children, and been widowed many times. Neighboring courts openly referred to her as "cursed", which drove Ariashal to despair. None of the deaths had been by her hand; she had not killed anyone. But despite the protests of her family, the stigma remained, a stubborn stain on the house of Rhudaur.

Finally, there came a hope for redemption. A lord from Cardolan was willing to take the chance and marry her, if for no other reason than to try and buy some peace between the warring lands. She accepted the offer, and waited for her groom to arrive.

He never came. His party was attacked by orcs, and everyone killed.

 

For some years afterwards Ariashal endured the pity of her brothers and their families. She tried to make herself valuable to them, especially to her nieces and nephews: dressing them for formal affairs, helping with their lessons, nursing them when they were ill. Her sisters-in-law were grateful for her help, and every now and then one would opine that she would make a fine mother. And Ariashal would laughingly agree, and quickly change the subject. She tried not to feel jealous of them for their children, for the connubial bliss that fate had denied her.

One by one her uncles, brothers, cousins and their sons fell in the endless battles with Cardolan, until only Ferion, the eldest of her brothers, was left. He openly demanded that Ariashal be married, curse or no, before their line was extinguished completely. But despite the best efforts of her father, no one came forward to be her groom.

Early one spring, her father summoned her to his council hall. It was late afternoon, warm and sunny. As she made her way to his chambers, she tried to guess what she was needed for. Someone was ill, someone needed her to do some embroidery, someone needed her to be useful. She knew that no one wanted her for herself.

Turabar was seated on his throne, a pile of papers spread on the table before him. His throne room was more practical than imposing; the court of Rhudaur had been migratory for so long that all the trappings of royalty were portable. The only sense of splendor came from the rich tapestries and carpets that were strategically placed to emphasize the presence of the king.  
  
"My dear Ariashal!" said her father, smiling at her through his graying beard. "I have some wonderful news for you. You are to be married!"

She froze.

"As you know," he continued briskly, "I have tried for some time to claim all of Cardolan as my own. This has proven to be impossible. But with our new alliance, we should soon be able to achieve our goal. And you will be the one who makes it possible!"  
  
"Who--" she managed to find her voice, "who am I to marry?"

"The king of Angmar."

_"What?"_

"I have entered into a secret alliance with Angmar. They will provide the iron and weapons I need to conquer Cardolan. Your part is more, shall we say, intimate. Given your--history, I have been at a disadvantage in dealing with them. I have had to make some sacrifices, but now all is settled. You will be married here, by proxy, and soon you will be on your way to your new home."

_"Angmar?"_

"Yes, Angmar," said the king, slapping the papers together. "As I said, they will give us armor, weapons, iron, men--everything we need. I must part with more than I planned, but it will be worth it. And you will be their Queen."  
  
"Do you know what their king is?" she shrieked. "They call him Witch-King! He is evil! A sorcerer! He commands armies of orcs and trolls! You yourself said you would never parlay with him! Never! Why now?"  
  
"My dear girl, there comes a time when some sacrifices must be made for the good of all. Now is that time."

"So I am to be a blood sacrifice? What good will come of this? And for what? Some miserable land?"

"Do not anger me, Ariashal!" he roared. "You are mine to do with what I will. It has been decided, and you will go!"

"I will not be sent to live with that evil creature!"  
  
"You do not understand," hissed her father. "You will go. It has been decided and the treaty drawn."

"I do not care! I will not go!"

"Do not cross me, girl!" For a moment it seemed that the stone walls trembled. "I will give you a choice. You will either go as a queen, or you will go in chains. But you will go."  
  
"In chains? So you would sell me into slavery?"  
  
"If you will not do as I command, yes."  
  
She stood still for a moment, mind racing. "Very well," she said. "If I am to go, it will be as queen."

"Good girl. You will sign the agreement now, and we will prepare for your departure."

Ariashal managed to fight back tears as she scrawled her name across the parchment. She noted that her future husband had not signed; instead there were two seals, one showing a tower and the word ANGMAR, the other depicting a tall crown. She slammed the pen down.

"There," said her father. "It is done. You may go now, and ready yourself."


	4. The Journey Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

For the next several days Ariashal hid in her chambers, desperate to find some way out of her dilemma. She even considered suicide. It would have the virtue of ruining her father's plans, but its impact on her was too permanent. Perhaps she could murder her husband, and then come home.

But--why kill him? Why do anything to him? What if--what if the curse was real, after all? That would do it! She would marry him, and he would die, and she would be free. Please, she breathed, if ever there was a curse, let it work this one time. And with that thought to cheer her, she continued supervising the maids packing her clothes.

 

  
A few weeks after signing the contract, wagons loaded with regal gifts for her arrived. There were chests filled with gold jewelry, magnificent velvet gowns, and luxurious fur robes. Her father immediately claimed the best of the robes for himself. He also claimed the iron pigs, the armor, the steel swords. Her brother was thrilled with the weapons and armor, better quality than he was used to seeing. The only things that remotely compared were some heirlooms, and a few pieces of Elven origin. She was allowed to keep the dresses and spectacular gold jewelry: grand collars set with garnets and rubies, bracelets, small coronets of silver interwoven with gold.

For his part, her father arranged for herds of horses and cattle, wagons filled with bags of seed grain, and timber. Looking at the wealth sent from Angmar, she could not help but think that her future husband was being cheated.

Came the day when she was set to leave. She traveled in a large, open wagon, with her boxes of clothing and personal possessions stacked behind her. A small escort of troops rode alongside as she set out for the border with Angmar. Her brother did not even bother to wish her well; her father, she saw, did not wait until her entourage had left the courtyard before retreating inside.

Travel was slower than she would have liked. Now that she was finally leaving, she wanted to go quickly and get the whole thing done as soon as was possible. But they had to wait on the wagon train, on the outriders, on the herds of horses and cattle.

The hills here in Rhudaur were wild, with no real settlements or villages. Ariashal had to sleep in her wagon, under the great stars, while the men camped around her. She pulled one of the fur robes from a chest to use as a makeshift bed, cursing her father for taking the thickest ones.

 

After several days they finally reached the border. An impressive collection of troops awaited her; as soon as her wagon came into view they began to pound drums and sound trumpets. She studied them closely. Most were dressed in black and red, carrying banners decorated with towers and swords. Sitting a little apart from the troops was a rather heavyset, older gentleman; he was bald, and his beard was nearly gray. He wore a black tabard, emblazoned with a red tower. So this was her new husband. He did not look like much of a sorcerer, but she supposed that was what made him effective.

He rode out to meet her. "Good day, my queen!" he called. "May I be the first to welcome you to Angmar. I am Adzuphel, His Majesty's steward. I am here to see that you arrive in Carn Dum safely."

"Oh! I thought you were the king."

He laughed. "Oh, no, madame. His Majesty is very tall."

"Where is the king?"

"At the front. He travels with the army every year. It is good for morale, you see, to have the king in the field. But he will meet you in Carn Dum." He called to some of the troops. "He sent an enclosed wagon for your comfort. It can get quite cold here."

Adzuphel checked the contents of the other wagons, counted the livestock, inspected the grain and timber. When he was satisfied, he gave the command for his troops to take possession of the goods.

Ariashal supervised the transfer of her belongings to the little wagon. She was quite taken with it; it was painted vivid yellows and greens, both inside and out. Inside were padded benches to sit on; they lifted for storing clothes, and could be folded together to make a bed. It had large windows, made of real glass. To her delight they even opened. Sleeping in here while wrapped in her fur robes would be much more comfortable than the last few nights had been.

She settled into her new wagon and began the long journey north.

 

 

They did not stray too far from the mountains. At night icy winds swept down the crags, blasting along so violently that her little wagon rocked. By day the winds abated somewhat, to be replaced by heavy, oppressive clouds. Her escorts traveled more quickly than those from Rhudaur; she guessed that they had a good deal of practice at covering great distances swiftly. And they avoided anything that even remotely resembled a road. She knew that the area was wild and thinly settled, but their insistence on staying in the wilderness was unnerving. Many times she caught the lonely howl of a wolf drifting on the wind. One evening, when they stopped, she asked Adzuphel why they were going this way.

"It is simple, madame," he said, grave. "Angmar is at war. If we were seen, we might be attacked. This way is much safer."

"But what about wolves?"

"The wolves obey His Majesty, madame. They are our allies."

"How is that possible?"

"His Majesty is a very great sorcerer, Madame. He does many things that are beyond the scope of ordinary men."

"I see." She retreated into her wagon, slowly digesting this information. A sorcerer who allied himself with orcs, and trolls, and wolves. What other horrors was he aligned with? Dragons? Demons? Ariashal wrapped herself in the furs and tried to drive such thoughts from her mind. But it seemed to her that every gust of wind was the howl of a wolf, and every horses' neigh the bellow of a dragon.

 

 

The following morning she was startled to see several large wolves hanging around the camp. She was even more startled to see Adzuphel petting them as though they were dogs. Cautiously she opened her window and called him over.

"I am glad you are awake, Madame," he said. "This pack has arrived to escort us the rest of the way. We will be able to go much faster now, for they will act as our scouts."

Ariashal eyed the wolves warily. They were much bigger than the wolves she had occasionally seen when her brothers brought their carcasses back from a hunt. To her dismay she saw that they fearlessly returned her gaze, their golden eyes intently focused on her.

What had she gotten herself into? No; _she_ had not gotten herself into anything. This was all her father's doing. And for what? A few wagons of iron and weapons, and the promise of aid in some future conquest. Meanwhile she was going to be married to a man who ruled Orcs and trolls, and who probably kept dragons in the house, ready to be unleashed at the slightest provocation.

She hoped her father would find the tradeoff worthwhile.

 

 

After a few days of cross-country travel they came to a road. It was not like the roads she was used to; it was neither muddy nor rutted. Instead it was paved with a dull gray gravel that seemed to repel the muck. Now they could pick up speed. Her little carriage moved swiftly, the hollow clop of horse hooves echoing from the road.

As they traveled further into Angmar, they began to encounter more people. Every now and then they stopped at little villages, clustered around forts. Here the people came out in force to see their new Queen. Adzuphel gave her a small bag of coins to distribute to them, which she tossed from the windows so that the people shouted and blessed her name. They always presented bags of seed grain to the local lord, along with some of the livestock. She could not help but notice that the animals they left behind were usually finer quality than the local ones.

And here, for the first time in her life, she saw orcs.

Adzuphel explained that the orcs were immigrants, moving from the southern mountains into Angmar, where they were welcomed. Ariashal smelled the orc camps long before they came into view: the combination of waste, filth, smoke and blood was unpleasant from a distance, and unbearable up close. Orcs camped in lean-tos, simple tents, or crude affairs built of skins and branches. Smoke drifted out through the roofs. The orcs were sensitive to sunlight, and stayed inside. Only a few braved the sun, wandering out to see the strangers.

At the orcish camps the distribution of gifts was much different. They would rouse the chieftain, who usually donned his most ferocious trappings to receive his visitors. Bags of rice and corn, foods brought expressly for this purpose, were left with him to distribute through the camp. And they usually left a cow, so that the orcs would have a feast tonight in honor of their new queen.

"You can only do so much with orcs," sighed Adzuphel after they left one of the camps. "His Majesty has tried for years to introduce some idea of civilization among them. He has managed to keep them from fighting each other. And he is starting to succeed with them at the mines."

"The mines?"

"Yes, madame. We have many iron and coal mines. From them we get the ingredients needed to make steel. You will see one of our mines and smelters soon enough. There you will see what His Majesty has planned for his people."

She thought again about what she had read concerning Angmar. Mostly barren and inhospitable, a cold land where the savage winters killed as many as wars. Once she had heard that there were great fires that burned near the mountains, constantly spewing smoke and flame across the valleys. The smoke was so thick that the trees died, and the snow was stained black.


	5. The Mines of Angmar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

What she had read was wrong.

It was worse.

They had seen the smoke for a day or so, hanging low over the valley. At night the sky glowed red, so much so that the mountains themselves seemed ablaze. As they grew closer she was aware of a heavy, oily smell that clung to everything. She covered her face with a small handkerchief, but the stench would not go away.

When they rounded the hill over looking the valley, she saw why.

The mountain itself seemed to have been hollowed out. Great columns of smoke and flame poured from the gaping caves. Gray smoke hung in the air, thick as a dense fog. Enormous piles of slag and cinder were stacked by the side of the mountains. Black-skinned trolls shoveled the cinder and slag into huge wagons, drawn by teams of horses and oxen. Armies of orcs and trolls stood on a gigantic mound of a shiny black substance, which they loaded into big carts. The black mass was a good thirty feet high, stretching back towards the mountains. Other trolls took the carts away, grunting as they pushed them towards the inferno.

More trolls were trundling out carts filled with iron pigs, which other trolls took and stacked in neat rows. She could not tell how many rows; it seemed to go on forever. The trolls, she saw, handled them as easily as she would move a platter.

"This is one of our steel foundries," said Adzuphel. "His Majesty is very proud of what has been done here."

"Proud? Of this? This is terrible!"

"Why, madame? Smelting iron and steel is a messy process. His Majesty has taught us the most efficient way. You see the trolls and orcs? If they were not doing this, they might well be fighting amongst themselves, or raiding human villages. Come. We will show you the town."

 

The smoke and smell grew worse. From a distance she could see that the walled town had been rigidly divided into four sections. In one section were huge, barnlike structures, made from drab gray blocks. Another section had long, low buildings, which seemed to be several hundred feet long. She saw that each of the long buildings was further divided into small rooms, perhaps ten feet wide and twenty deep. All had tiny yards behind them A few twisted trees and dispirited bushes grew there, but for the most part they seemed to hold pigs and geese.

The third group was also a large building, but this she recognized as a market. She could make out merchant stalls through the haze, and saw that there were many Orcs freely wandering around.

The final section held houses. These, too, were built of the same gray bricks as the rest of the city. They were tall and narrow, each sharing a common wall with its neighbors. These also had chimneys, which blew even more black smoke into the air. All of the houses had yards, big enough, she saw, to grow a garden, although only a few seemed to do so. Most of them had rough stables; she saw a few ponies and some rangy cows. A few dogs trotted about, while scraggly chickens scratched at the ground.

. Adzuphel tapped on her window. Cautiously she opened it.

"See the large buildings? Those are the troll lodges. They all stay together in one room."

"Males and females together?"

"Yes, madame. They are not particular about such things. Over here," he continued, "Is the market. We have many tradesmen who live here. And those--" he gestured towards the low buildings, "are where the orcs live. Would you like to inspect their homes?"

"I--I, no, I think I would prefer to continue."

"Very well. I cannot say I blame you; they are not the neatest housekeepers. But by living here we can keep them from starving, or eating their young."

"Who lives in the other houses?"

"Men, for the most part, although there are a few hobbit families here. Most of the hobbits have moved on, to Cardolan and such."

What had she read about hobbits? Little people, weren't they? No larger than children. And they preferred to grow things. No wonder they left this hideous wasteland for the green hills of Cardolan.

They stopped at the home of the man responsible for the town. He took possession of several wagons of grain, some animals, nearly half the timber, then gave Ariashal a delicately wrought iron brooch. She tossed money to the people on the streets, noting that everyone--orcs, hobbits, men-- grabbed up the coins with equal fervor. She did not find that comforting.

 

Now their journey headed high into the mountains. The road was still good, although it was steep in places. It took considerable skill on the part of the wagon masters to negociate the turns and drops without disaster. Here the winds were powerful, buffeting her little wagon even while it was in motion. At night everyone huddled close by the fire, even the wolves. She was extremely grateful for her shelter, wrapping herself tightly in the fur.

One morning she caught sight of a distant plume of smoke.

"That is Carn Dum," explained Adzuphel.

"Is it as bad as that mine?"

"The citadel is above the smoke, madame. You will not be troubled."

"How can the King live there?"

"It is a natural fortress, madame. It is one of the best in Middle-Earth. And it protects our greatest mine and foundry."

She had managed to avoid asking too many questions, but could wait no longer. "Adzuphel, what manner of man is the King?"

Adzuphel half-laughed, half-coughed. "I do not quite know what you mean, madame. As I said, he is very tall."

"That tells me nothing. How well do you know him?" She looked at him.

Adzuphel met her gaze. "To speak the truth, madame, I do not know him well. I doubt any man does. He meets with his council, he holds court, he leads us to war."

"You still have told me nothing."

"Well, he can be somewhat--otherworldly, madame. He is a very powerful sorcerer. For that reason people tend to fear him."

"Do you fear him?"

Adzuphel hesitated. "I-- I do not fear him, madame. I respect him. I--let us say that I would not provoke him."

"Is he easily provoked?"

"Please, madame, you are asking me things that--"

She cut him off. "If I am to be your queen, I must know the man I have married. Now, tell me. Is he easily provoked?"

He sighed. "Usually when I have seen him angry, it is because of something that happened on the battlefield, or something to do with Arnor. He has a great hatred of Arnor. His dream, I think, is to reunite the Northern kingdom. I know he thinks that they are foolishly destroying the bloodlines of Numenor with their constant squabbling. He wants to bring the glory of Numenor back to Middle-Earth."

"Is that all?"

"I must tell you that you must be pure of blood, else he would not have married you."

Her mind flashed back to the home of her first husband, and the taunts she endured there. If they only knew!

"Is there something else you wish to know?"

"Yes. What is his name?"

"I--I do not know."  
"Surely he must have a name!"

"I am certain he does, madame, but I do not know it. I have never heard him called by anything other than his titles."

This was bizarre. "Very well, then. What does he look like?"

Adzuphel shifted uneasily. "I--I do not know, madame. I have never seen his face."

"What? You do not know his name, and you have never seen his face? Then how do you know with whom you are dealing?"

"Oh," Adzuphel smiled nervously, "I can easily identify the King. His voice is unmistakable."

"But why will he not reveal himself to you? Is it forbidden?"

"I don't know, madame. All I know is that he always wears a hood and velvet mask. No one ever sees his face."

"I see," she said, quiet.

"Is there anything else you wish to know? If not, we must get going soon. "

"No, that will do." She dismissed him, settling back into the fur.

Ariashal tried to digest this strange new information. Why would a man never show his face? There were several possibilities. Perhaps he was hideously ugly, and wanted no one to know. Or scarred, perhaps, from a battle wound or a spell gone wrong. He might not even look human. She had heard of wizards whose experiments went awry, leaving them as unnatural creatures.

Maybe he was really a king from another land, in disguise, living where he would not be found. That might be why he hid his name, too. Perhaps he was no king at all, but a fugitive who had convinced the scattered people of the north to follow him. Or he could be keeping his name a secret so that no one could cast a spell on him, and force him to do their bidding. She had heard of such things happening to wizards.

There was no point in speculating. She would know the truth soon enough.


	6. Carn Dum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

 

Carn Dum was a gigantic version of the mining town.

It was not as close to the mines as the other town; the city proper was some distance away. Whipping winds kept the smoke to a minimum; the sun shone here. But the mines and foundries themselves had the same smell as before. Pools of yellow and orange water, foul, stinking of sulphur, were close to the road. Defiant trees grew near them, twisted and stunted by the water. A wall surrounded foundries and mines, and the housing for the mine workers was laid out as it had been in the smaller town. The road did not enter the foundry area; and for this Ariashal was grateful.  
  
They crossed some fields of what she assumed were wheat and barley, although the crops were not yet ready for harvest. There were a few groves of trees, some racks and sheds for drying crops, and then the walls of the city itself.

Banners snapped in the sharp wind, rows of small black and red ones, huge black ones with red towers. Soldiers lined the walls, shields glinting in the sun. The great gates stood open; she could see the road leading into the city, with people milling around. She searched the crowd, hunting for any sign of a man who was exceptionally tall, or who was dressed regally. No such man could be seen.

A short man in a black and red tabard galloped his bay horse out to meet them. He reined in his horse next to Ariashal, and saluted her and Adzuphel. "May I be the first to welcome you to Carn Dum," he said, with a slight bow. "I regret to inform you that His Majesty has been delayed. I have been ordered to escort you to your new home, and see to it that your needs are met."

"And who are you?" she asked.

He half-bowed, flustered. "I am Minios, madame. I am Captain of the City Guards."

"And where, exactly, is the King?"

Minios met her gaze. He had dull brown hair, like most of Hillmen she had known; she wondered if he had come from the area near Rhudaur.

"The King was delayed by a small skirmish," he said. "He ordered us to be exceptionally alert. He thought that someone might be trying to prevent your arrival."

She drew a long breath. Not yet crowned, and already there was opposition. There could be no opposition at all from Rhudaur; her family was only too glad to be rid of her. What had Adzuphel said about the other kingdoms, and her new husband's desire to reunite them? She would have to be even more careful than she thought.

"Very well," she said at last. "I must go into the city, and meet my new people."

 

 

Ariashal tossed coins and trinkets to the crowd. There was an even greater mix of races here. She saw Hillmen, with their dull dark hair; and little hobbits, miniature versions of the Hill folk. And there were many exotic outsiders: Easterlings dressed in red and yellow robes, Southrons with their black veils. Some Dunedain were there, distinguished by their height, and some dark- skinned men she thought might be from Harad. There were orcs here, too, and some people with gray-green faces and yellow eyes who looked like they might be part orc themselves. She saw some more of the black trolls, a few huge folk which she thought might be giants, and some creatures whose race she could not identify at all. To her relief there were no dragons.

People pressed forward, tried to shove gifts into her hands. The guards would have driven them off, but she stopped them. Anything they wished to give her could be placed in one of the other wagons, and examined later. Minios reluctantly gave the order to the others, and they continued on.

Like the smaller city, Carn Dum was rigidly laid out. She recognized the orcish and troll districts, and the market halls. The mannish houses were slightly more varied; there were several large blocks of homes like those she had seen before, but there were also some substantial homes set closer to the actual fortress. These were quite large, and most of them carried their own banners; the homes, she guessed, of the prominent families. She could not tell from the street, but she assumed that, like such homes everywhere, they had their own courtyards and gardens. What they did not seem to have was any sign of a private army, such as the ones that lived in Rhudaur's wealthier homes.

"Do the nobles have their own armies here?" she asked Adzuphel.

"No, madame. The King forbids private armies here. It is too conducive to strife."

 

  
The fortress itself was halfway up the mountain. She could think of no better way to describe it other than "forbidding", or perhaps "foreboding". Like the mountain itself it was made of red stone; parapets and towers seemed almost to flow from the rock. The road up was steep, with sheer cliffs on either side. Soldiers of all races lined the road; they saluted her as her wagon trundled past.

There was some confusion at the bridge to the fortress. Minios and Adzuphel argued over which of them had the right to escort the new Queen into the castle. Ariashal solved it by having them walk on either side of her.  
  
She looked up at the sheer red walls, banners roiling in the wind. It seemed to her that no one could possibly be able to take such a place; it was high, it was steep, with a moat that was both dry and deep. Adzuphel told her that much of the rock for the castle proper was quarried from the moat.

The first rooms were military: the armory, some guard rooms, stables. Here she met the House Guards, men who had served the king loyally and well. They saluted her. A pair of them, armed with swords, fell in behind her as she continued her tour.

Once they had inspected the guard rooms, they escorted her out to a magnificent courtyard, surrounded by an arcade. A fountain splashed in the center, and a few trees reached towards the sky. High on one wall was a grand clock, and a fine mosaic of flying creatures danced across the others. Adzuphel guided her into the arcade, to a set of stairs which marched upwards to the main living rooms.

 

Whatever else there was to say about her new husband, he was far wealthier than she had expected.

The rooms were paneled in wood, lined with tapestries, decorated with fantastic golden furniture. Inlaid wood floors, covered with thick woven carpets, cushioned every step. Great statues stood along one wall; on the other a series of windows opened on to the courtyard. Velvet drapes, heavy with gold and silver embroidery, hung to the floor.

It was several seconds before she noticed that there were people here, too. Most seemed to be women and servants, but there was one group that caught her attention. They stood apart from the others, robed in black, their faces hidden. She counted eight of them.

"Who are they?" she asked Adzuphel.

"They are--associates of His Majesty. They are here for your coronation."

She heard the hesitation in his voice. "What is the matter with them?"

Something seemed to breathe nearby; a chill washed over her. She managed to suppress a shudder. She felt them staring at her, watching her every step.

"This way, madame," he said, louder than was necessary. She followed him into a wide hallway. At the far end waited a set of heavy doors, guarded by men in red and black tabards. They saluted her as Adzuphel opened the doors. On the other side was a wide staircase. He led her up to a small antechamber, and another set of guarded doors.

"Who are they?" she asked again.

He glanced around, as if he thought that they could hear. "As I said, they are associates of His Majesty."

"Do they live here?"

"No. Sometimes they visit, but they usually stay away."

She found that thought reassuring. "Are they some sort of order?"

"I believe so." He lowered his voice. "I--I do not like all of them, madame. They use fear as others use swords. The one known as Khamul is especially dangerous. Even His Majesty dislikes him."

That thought was most definitely not reassuring.

"Your private rooms, madame, are through here." The guards opened the door and they walked into a large chamber, bare except for some tapestries on the walls. There were two sets of doors here, both guarded. Adzuphel gestured towards the more massive of the doorways. These were black, inlaid with gold in the tower motif.

"Those rooms are the King's. He has his sleeping chamber, his library, and his--study-- in there. There is also fine bath in His Majesty's quarters, but it cannot be used when he is not at home."

"Why not?"

"He keeps many strange things in there. He has a great number of magical devices and other things that I would not dare touch. He locks the doors when he leaves, so that no one can disturb his works."

"I see." And indeed it did make a great deal of sense to her; she would not want to accidentally trigger an explosion, or summon a demon.

"These will be your rooms." He led her to a pair of sumptuously carved wooden doors, their golden handles shaped like winged dragons. He unlocked them and pushed them open. "I hope that they are to your liking."

She stopped, stunned.

Never, not with her father, not with the Hillmen, nor at the other Dunedain courts, had she seen such a place. Her room was octagonal, with windows overlooking the mountains and courtyard. Gorgeous furniture, inlaid with gold and silver, lined the walls. In the center of the room was her bed, a huge piece with eight posts. Grand velvet draperies hung from the ceiling, cascading over the supports and pooling into folds on the floor. Silk tapestries covered the walls, depicting, she saw, the life of a Queen of Numenor.

She walked around the bed, until she saw a second door. In here was an antechamber of sorts, with a small bed for a servant tucked discreetly behind a folding screen. More furniture was here, including a table, some chairs and a bookcase filled with volumes. There were many cabinets and chests, along with two enormous mirrors.

Beyond the antechamber was a bath room, with a black marble tub sunk into the floor. Its taps were gold, shaped like sea-drakes. To her surprise, there was both hot and cold running water. A washstand, laden with towels, stood nearby. Yes, this was much better than she had expected.

She glanced at the carpet. Beneath it, set into the floor, was a series of strange symbols made out of what appeared to be iron. There were other symbols, too, continuing beneath the carpet: lines of gold, runes in silver, iron numerals. They disappeared under carpets, beneath furniture, until they met up with the wall. Puzzled, she asked Adzuphel about them.

"Oh," he said. "Those are magical protections. His Majesty laid them in the floor himself. There are some in his own rooms, and he even placed them in the foundations of the castle. He wants to be well-shielded from any magical attacks."

"So they can be under the rugs and still perform?"

"I do not know anything about that," he said, chuckling. "You will have to ask the King. But I would expect that they continue to do their work, regardless of what lays over them."

"Who would--"

"Attack His Majesty?" finished Adzuphel. "In the long history of Middle-Earth, there have been very few Men who wielded magic, and none to do so as well as the King. There has been some hostility from the Elves, and there are many others who would gladly see him stopped. He has fought many battles with those who resent his command of the arcane arts.

"Now, we must discuss the household arrangements for you. The King, of course, sleeps in his own rooms; he will visit you here. Your women will maintain your clothing and your personal possessions. "

Ariashal only half-heard Adzuphel going over the schedule for the rest of the day. There would be women to supervise, and clothes to put away. Her new home was magnificent, already she was in love with that bed. But how long would she get to occupy it, before some rival killed her new husband? Sorcerer or no, he was unlikely to escape her curse. Why did she have to invoke it before coming? She would never have a decent marriage, never bear children, never--

"I must take my leave now, madame," said Adzuphel. "You women will care for you. They will bring your evening meal later. Good evening."

She watched him leave.

The women were busily unpacking her clothes, trying to smooth the wrinkles out of the gowns, shaking the dust from the robes. They carefully hung the robes and dresses in the armoires, gently closing the doors so that no fabric would be caught or crushed.

It was no concern to her where the women put her clothes; she was not going to be here long enough for it to matter. In a few weeks, probably no more than a year, she would be packing for the long journey back to Rhudaur. Rhudaur was not home, not in the friendly, loving sense of that word; the court had moved so often that she had never really belonged anywhere. And her return after each failed marriage only meant more silences from her father, more desperate attempts to find something useful for her to do, more frantic negotiations to get her married again. How could she possibly think of such a place as home?

She was not wanted in Rhudaur, unless she was useful; and that pattern had continued everywhere she had ever lived. Never, in her entire life, had she been wanted for herself alone. Angmar would be no different. She would stay long enough to see her husband die, and then she would be sent away.

And this time, she knew, it would be worse. She was living in a palace, with fine furniture and finer jewels, a place of wealth and taste. Most of this was done at the King's bidding; none of this had been here before. But she would be the end of it. Her husband was already doomed, his gorgeous palace damned, and she was here to curse him to ruin and herself to oblivion in Rhudaur. Pulling off her shoes, she crawled onto the fabulous bed and cried herself to sleep.


	7. Coronation Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

 

Next morning they awoke her early. The King had arrived late last night, and had ordered that her coronation take place that afternoon.

For hours her new women readied her. They washed and brushed her hair, rubbed her with perfumes and oils, filed her nails. They were unsure of how to do her hair. Finally they braided the front of it, plaiting golden ribbon and delicate chains of gold among her dark locks.

Several of her gowns were brought out, which they all examined closely. She finally settled on a deep blue one, its hanging sleeves trimmed with gold and fur. Beneath it she wore a black silk chemise, decorated with delicate gold embroidery she had done herself. Over the gown they fastened a gold belt, rich with jewels. They picked one of the magnificent golden pendants that the King had sent her as a gift, and slipped it over her head. She put on a pair of golden bracelets; they checked to be sure that her earrings were suitably rich; one of them gave her a final pat of powder; and she was led out to meet her future.

For a moment she stopped at a mirror to admire their handiwork. The dark blue of the gown flattered her slightly too-full figure; the gold jewelry set off her dark eyes and hair. Sparkling earrings glowed against her face. She had always thought of herself as plain, but here, in this gown and jewelry, she was magnificent.

She followed the women through the hallways and stairways, until they came to a set of double doors, carved and inlaid with the same red tower motif of the banners. Adzuphel, richly garbed in black and gold, stood by them. He bowed to her. Her women retreated.

"You will be a lovely queen," he said, gallantly taking her hand. "Come. They are ready."

 

  
The room they entered was a long rectangle, ending in a gilded, coffered half-dome. Here the walls were even more richly decorated than those of the bedroom. Captured flags and banners hung from the ceiling; the treasures of many a foreign lord graced the walls. The nobles and notable of Angmar waited here, too, dressed in their finest garb, jewels sparkling in the light.

At the far end, beneath the golden dome, was a carpeted dais, and on the dais was a throne. It was not gold, but black, inlaid with fantastic geometric patterns of gold. On either side of it were the strange black-robed people from yesterday, although she saw that many of them now sported jewelry.

And in front of the throne stood the King.

He was tall, far taller than anyone else in the room, an impression that his high crown only exaggerated; she guessed that he must stand seven feet tall. His robes were black and red, enriched with gold. A grand, sweeping chain of office, golden squares set with huge red jewels, hung almost to his waist. At his side was a sword, its gold hilt gleaming with jewels. And he wore a black velvet mask.

Adzuphel escorted her to the dais. "You Majesty," he began, "may I present Ariashal, princess of Rhudaur."

She bowed her head. A strange feeling, not quite fear, not quite terror, swept over her. It was his sheer size, she told herself; she had never seen anyone so tall before. She kept her head bowed, fighting back the urge to run away.

"Stand with me."

Startled, she looked up. The King extended his gloved hand. Nervously she took it, stepping up next to him. Even here, on the dais next to him, she felt dwarfed by the imposing figure.

Adzuphel came forward, carrying a golden crown. The King picked it up and held it over her head.

"Ariashal, I accept you as my wife. With this I crown you Queen of Angmar." As gently as he could he placed it on her head.

The room erupted in cheers.

 

 

A celebration and feast followed in the main hall. Ariashal sat alongside her new husband while the prominent citizens of Carn Dum came forward to offer their blessings. She noted that the eight black ones never came forward, preferring, it seemed, to stay by themselves. One of them seemed to be staring at her, and she sensed malevolence behind the hidden eyes. Khamul, that must be Khamul; Adzuphel said that the King disliked him. Natural, then, that Khamul should hate the new Queen.

Many of the feast's dishes were exotic to Ariashal; there were some odd meats, strange vegetables, hot spices. She noted that her husband ate and drank little, no doubt because of the mask. Uncertain of what was expected she too ate lightly. The entertainment that followed was colorful, if relatively simple: some dancers, a few singers, a handful of musicians. She got the distinct impression that such entertainment was a rarity at Carn Dum; perhaps the King did not seek out such amusements.

He seemed to guess her thoughts. "I am sorry that the entertainers are not to your liking," he said quietly. "Unfortunately, most of my men are more used to an armed camp than a regular court. Perhaps now that will change."

"No," she said, a little startled that he had spoken. "It will be fine."

"It will change. This land has not known civilization in a long time," he continued. "There is much I must do."

"I saw the mines."

"That is only the beginning. I will bring order to these lands."

Something in his tone told her that he would do so, would bend the very rocks to his will if needed.

He held up one hand and the room fell silent. "It is time for the Queen and I to retire. You may continue with the revels, if you wish."

Someone shouted "Long live the King!" The cry was picked up, and the room soon vibrated with wild cheers and raucous toasts. The King stood, and helped her up. She took his hand and they left the feast together, the revelers cheering.

At the door to her room they stopped. "Go," he said. "I will be with you shortly."

Ariashal entered her rooms, unsure of what to expect. At all of her other weddings there had been wild drinking until late, followed by boisterous partying in the bedroom. She had never had to fight off any of her husbands; they were usually too drunk to do much, and what little they did do was quick. It was always several days before she had any satisfaction at all from them. She doubted that this would be any different.

Her women quickly undressed her, unbraided her hair, put away her jewels, refreshed her perfume. One of them helped her into a sheer blue chemise. She had no sooner put it on than the door opened.

"Leave us," said the King. The women swiftly departed, closing the door behind them.

He was wearing a plain, hooded black robe, gloves and mask; he still had the sword, although he had shed the jewelry. "Sit down," he said, finding a seat. "There are things which we must discuss."

Obediently she settled on a chair.

"I know that you have been married before, and I am well aware of the fate of your former husbands. I doubt that I will succumb quite so easily."

She did not know whether to laugh or be silent. She chose silence.

"There are things about me which you wish to know." It was not a question.

"What--what is your name?"

"That I cannot tell you. If I gave you my true name, you would be vulnerable to those who wished to learn it. You must understand. I am a sorcerer, and there are those who could use my name to control me. I have enough difficulties with that as it is. There is no reason to make it worse."

"Then what do I call you?"

"I have been called many things in my life. Here I am called Witch-King, which is hardly a term of endearment."

She managed a smile.

"I will think of something. There are other things on your mind."

"Who are the black robes?"

He was silent for a long moment. "They are my--brethren, though we are bound by ties stronger than blood."

"Adzuphel thought that you were all in an order of wizards."

"In a way." The manner in which he said it told her he considered the matter closed.

An awkward silence fell. She shifted nervously in her chair.

Taking it as a signal, he rose. "I will be going, then. There are things which I must do."

"What? Why leave now? I have not even seen your face And we-- well--"

He stopped. It seemed as though a huge burden had suddenly landed on his shoulders. Slowly he turned to her. "Listen to me. Once you have seen, you cannot unsee. I will give you a choice. I will leave, and you will not question me again. Or I will stay, and you will see. Which do you choose?"

"Stay," she said. She wondered if he could hear her heart pounding.

"Very well." He turned away from her.

Ariashal watched as he pulled off his gloves and unfastened the mask, dropping both on the chair. The sword was laid across them. He unbelted the robe, bent over, and shrugged the garment off.

And vanished.

"What?" She half-shrieked, half-called. "Where are you?"

"Here. I have not moved."

"But what--"

"You cannot see me, any more than I can see you. I can see your gown, but not your flesh."

"But--why?"

"Long ago I did something that can never be undone. It is a burden I shall carry forever. I do not expect you to understand."

She watched as the robe lifted off the floor, then swirled around to form the shape of a man. Unseen hands gathered up sword, gloves, mask.

"Well?"

Ariashal managed to find her voice. "I--I do not know what to say. I--I am sorry."

"I did not ask for your pity!" he snapped.

It was too much. The journey, the mines, orcs, black robes, wolves--and now this. She could no longer contain herself. She buried her face in her hands and began to cry.

Something brushed her face. Strong hands settled on her shoulders.

"Ariashal, please. Please listen."

She could not look up.

"I did not mean to snarl at you. I fear I have been too long in the company of orcs and soldiers. I did not mean to frighten you."

She sniffled a little, wiped her eyes on her sleeve. He was behind her still, holding her. She took a deep breath and leaned back against him, taking one of his hands in both of hers. Instinctively she laid her face against his palm.

Silently they held on to each other, while the tension gradually melted away. Slowly, tentatively, he began to caress her.

Ariashal had never known such touching; her other husbands never seemed to have much time for this. They were much more concerned with their own gratification to pay attention to her. She might as well have been a sack of sand, for all they had cared.

But this--this was different. Sighing contentedly at his touch, she pushed against him, arching her body in pleasure as he continued to fondle her. Through his robes she could feel his arousal, hard against her body.

It no longer mattered that she could not see him, that he ruled a harsh land of orcs and wolves. All she wanted, all she cared about, was the desire she had for him. She kissed his hand and pulled him to her. "Come, my lord," she whispered. "I am yours."


	8. Ring of Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

Ariashal quickly adjusted to the requirements of being Queen.

For the first time in her life she was in command. The people here were willing and eager to obey any whim she might have, although she was careful not to be too demanding. She wanted more flowers in the courtyard gardens, and flowers hardy enough to withstand the cold were brought. She wanted some new, warmer gowns, and her women dutifully sewed them. She wanted music, so skilled musicians were found for her.

Above all else, she wanted the King.

She waited impatiently for him to come to her rooms. They ate together, privately, so no one would see him unmasked. Ariashal spoke with him, trying to divert him and ease the cares of his day. He never really told her much, only occasionally relating a few incidents that he found amusing or strange. It seemed to her that he was tolerantly bemused by her inquiries; she suspected that no one had ever before bothered to enquire after his well-being.

But it was the time after the last of the meal had been cleared away that she longed for.

It was astonishingly erotic to have as a lover a man she could hear and feel, taste and smell, but not see. When she pulled him to her, she cared only for the enormous strength of his body. He needed no face to arouse her, to pleasure her, to bring her to ecstacy. It was as though she had found the ideal lover: a body she desired, and any face she wished.

He was far more experienced than any of her other husbands had been. He knew how to caress, to tantalize, to nuzzle; he knew how to bring her delight before satisfying himself. For her part she was willing to submit to anything he desired, willing to try any pose, any stance, any movement. She would do anything he asked of her, so secure was she in his presence.

There were some things about him that she knew. He must always be in command, even during the most intense, intimate embraces. For the most part she was pleased to surrender to him, to let him do as wished. Ariashal willingly submitted when he looped silken cords around her wrists, binding her to the bedposts. Once he had done so he would gently caress even her most private and intimate places with his fingers and tongue, until she reached the heights of pleasure.

But when she tried to reciprocate, to give him the same pleasure as he gave to her, he angrily refused, flinging the cords across the room. She longed to ask him why he could not relinquish control, but dared not. Much safer to accept that he would not, and leave it alone.

There were many other things that she had come to know about him. He never seemed tired; even after the most arduous lovemaking he never drifted off to sleep, never collapsed from exertion. She knew that his hair was long; it fell past his shoulders, and by running her fingers through it she knew that it was wavy. He was powerfully built; there was no mistaking the contour of muscle on his back, chest, arms, thighs. And she knew that he always wore a ring.

One night, after they had finished their lovemaking, she decided to ask. Playfully slipping her fingers through his, finally grasping the ring, she began. "Why is it, my Lord, that you have a ring which I cannot see? Do you keep it from my sight, so I will not be tempted to steal it? Is it so beautiful that --"

He seized her hand, crushing her fingers until her cries of pain made him release her.

"Why did you do that?" she whimpered, rubbing her bruised hand. "Why is that ring so important that you would hurt me? You know I did not mean-"

"I know what you meant! You want to know what it is, and what it does, and why you must never wear it. You say that you are cursed. You do not know what cursed means!"

She fought back the tears. Could this be the same man who had been so tender just moments ago? "I--I do not understand."

"Be glad you do not!" And he gathered up his robes and left.

 

 

 

Ariashal sought out Adzuphel the next day. Her night had alternated between bouts of crying and fitful sleep. Whatever she had done to provoke the King, there must be a way to set it right. She knew by now that Adzuphel was considerably more than a simple steward. He was in charge of the daily operations of the castle, he was in charge of the household guards, and he was also something of a confidante for the King. If anyone knew what to do, it would be him.

She spent more time than usual on her makeup, trying to hide the effects of her night. When she finally felt able to face the world, she left her rooms. Adzuphel was supposed to be supervising the installation of a new window in one of the halls. She made her way to him, stopping to watch as he explained the layout to the workmen.

He finally saw her. Embarrassed, he bowed quickly. "Greetings, Your Majesty. What brings you here?"

"I must ask you something."

He swiftly guided her away from the workers. "What is it?"

"The King. I angered him last night, and I need your advice."

Adzuphel drew a long breath. "I do not know what I can do."

"You can hear me out, and perhaps offer your counsel."

He sighed. "Very well, Your Majesty. But I must tell you that I am not particularly gifted in matters of the heart."

For the first time in hours she managed to smile. "Anything you can say will be helpful."

"As you wish. Tell me what has happened, and perhaps I can help set things right."

"He wears a ring. What does it mean?"

Adzuphel looked at her, then turned away. "What did he say?"

"That was what caused his anger. I was--teasing him, and when I asked about it, he became furious and left my bed."

He looked over at the workers, then back at her. "I think I understand. Very well. Come with me."

She followed him down the stairs and out to the courtyard, past branches denuded by cold from the wind-chilled trees, to one of the red stone benches. Ariashal quietly settled on it. "Please sit with me," she said.

"Thank you." He sighed as he sat beside her. "Now I know why he has been in a foul mood since last night. He has spent most of the day in his study. I dare not disturb him there. As for the ring, I will tell you what I know."

She waited, expectant.

"I know that the ring is magic, and that His Majesty never takes it off. But what it does, and why he never removes it, I do not know."

"But why would he not tell me this himself?" she asked, puzzled.

"I do not know." Adzuphel groped for words. "I--I do not think that the King has led a very --happy life, madame. I think that there is much more to him than he will ever let on. There is some pain, some burden that he carries, and that, I think, colors all he does.

"There is another thing. You are not the first woman to live here as queen."

Startled, she looked up.

"A few years ago, His Majesty conquered a small city. Their lord was slain in the battle. We brought his wife to the King."

"What--what did he do?"

Adzuphel smiled at her. "Not what you fear. His Majesty does not force himself on women. I should think you would know that by now."

She blushed.

"He asked her if she wished to return here. She did. He brought her back, established her in the rooms which you now occupy, and for some time all was well. Then she grew curious. Like you, she asked about the ring. I do not know what he told her. But I do know that, a few days later, she went into his rooms."

"The ones I cannot enter."

"The very same. You must remember--he is a very powerful wizard. She entered his rooms, and released a demon. It stole her away before anything could be done."

"A _demon_?"

"Yes, my Queen. His Majesty chased after it, but it was too late. His Majesty was furious for weeks."

"A demon?"

"Yes. That is why, I think, that he grew angry with you. I think he fears that the same fate might befall you."

"I have no desire to enter his rooms." And even less to meet a demon.

"That is good. I think--" he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper-- "I think he fears losing you. I think he is attached to you. I do not think he loves you; I do not think that he is capable of loving anyone. I think that whatever he has done to gain the power he wields has cost him dearly. But I do think that he cares for you. And I do know that he does not like to lose anything that belongs to him."

He stood to go. "If I may take your leave, I must make sure that they seal that window properly."

"You may go."

She watched him leave, pausing to instruct some servants before disappearing into the shadows of the arcade.

A demon.

For some time she studied the fountain, the interplay of light on the splashing water, the soothing sound of the droplets scattering across the surface. If only things were as clear! She tried to digest everything Adzuphel had told her. The ring was magic; she had guessed that herself. The King probably never took it off for fear of losing it. What had he said, that first night? Something about control. Perhaps losing it would mean he could no longer control the magic powers he used. And she had suspected that he disliked having things taken from him.

But--a _demon_?

What must have happened? Had she opened the door and freed the thing? What had he told her about the ring that made her think she could safely enter the rooms? Ariashal could not imagine going in there, under any circumstance. What had the woman been thinking?

Adzuphel said that the King had chased after the demon. The sheer amount of will, of determination, of courage, needed to do that was almost beyond comprehension. She could not imagine reaching into a fire to retrieve something, let alone follow a demon to who knew where.

And he returned. She had never heard of such a thing. In every story she had read there was no way to return. But the King obviously had. Powerful magic, indeed!

Ariashal wondered what he found there. The old queen must have been dead, else he would have brought her back. Beyond dead, really; Adzuphel did not mention her body being returned for burial. Surely the King would have done so, if it were at all possible.

And all of this, the chasing, the crossing into the demon's world, all had been done for someone he wanted to keep. What, she wondered, would he do for something he loved?

Well, she would not test him like that. She would stay far away from his rooms, and leave the magic alone.

 

 

For several days the King avoided her rooms. He would not even eat with her. Ariashal was heartsick. What had she done? Had she managed to alienate him so thoroughly that she would never see him again? She saw him from afar during the day; she caught glimpses of him as he moved about the castle, busy with his advisors. Her women tried to comfort her as she cried into her pillows, but it was useless. She was stupid; she had driven him off. She had lost her lord and lover. If this was to be her life, she might as well walk into his rooms and let the demons eat her.

One tearful afternoon, as she tolerated the women brushing her hair, she heard the doors open. The women stopped.

"Leave us," said the King.

The women obediently slipped from the room.

For once Ariashal was glad that he could not see her. She looked horrible when she had been crying; her eyes always puffed up, her nose invariably became a red blob. Quickly she dabbed her eyes on her sleeve.

"I have come to see you."

Ariashal managed, just barely, to keep from running to him and flinging herself at his feet. "You--you have?"

"And I have brought you something. Tis no more than a bauble, but I think it will please you."

She went to him. In his hand was a sparkling blue gem, set in a gold sun, a golden chain coiled beneath it. Carefully she picked it up. The gem glittered in the light. She slipped the chain over her head.

"So," he began, "I am forgiven?"

Him? Forgiven? Ariashal seized him, burying her face in his chest, too overjoyed to speak.


	9. Storm Rider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

One of the King's principle duties was to ensure that his people were fed. Accordingly he worked hard to keep the winter rains at bay until the grain was safely stored; to do so required that he employ powerful spells. For the magic to be most effective, he needed to be closer to the fields of western Angmar.

"I would be happier if I could go with you," Ariashal murmured.

They lay together on her bed; the room, still filled with the scent of recently slaked lust, was warm, serene.

"You are much safer here."

"I do not care." She stretched, settling her head on his chest. "I do not know how I will live without you for weeks."

"We all must make sacrifices," he said, gently stroking her hair. "I must leave tonight, else it will be too late."

"How can you ride your horse at night? It would be better if you left in the morning."

"I am not riding my horse."

She sat up. "What do you intend to do? Fly?"

He slid from the bed, gathered robes from the floor. "Get dressed," he said, flinging the clothes over his shoulders. "I will come for you. I think that it is time you learn one of my secrets."

 

  
An hour later she stood before a massive set of black doors, the King and Adzuphel at her side. The King was wearing armor, made, it seemed, of scales, all edged in gold; the black surfaces shone in the light. He wore his sword, and he carried a large leather bag, its straps decorated with delicate runes and letters.

He raised a hand and the door swung inwards, revealing an enormous round room, lined with stalls carved from red stone. Heavy steel doors closed off the stalls. And in each stall stood--

"Dragons!" shrieked Ariashal.

"No," said the King emphatically. "They are _not_ dragons. Dragons speak. These do not."

But what else could they be? They were big, black, scaly, with huge leathery wings and piercing yellow eyes. Their heads were long, with a narrow beak balanced by a tall crest. She could see little claws on the tips on their wings, and much more impressive talons on their powerful hind legs. For such large animals, they had ridiculously stubby tails; their tails could not be more than a hand long.

One of the beasts waited in the center of the room, cross-tied to a pair of massive stone pillars. It had been bridled and saddled, and one of the big Olog-Hai trolls was carefully checking and re- checking its breast collar, crupper, cinch. The creature tossed its head, champing at its bit.

"You--you are going to ride that thing?" asked Ariashal.

"Of course. A horse is far too slow. I can go farther in a night on one of these than I could in a week with a horse. And from the air it is possible to see things which are invisible from the ground."

She walked as close to the thing as she dared. It stopped tossing its head long enough to look at her. Cold, unblinking yellow eyes met her gaze. She could read no intelligence there, only a lingering hatred, presumably for bridle and rider.

"He has not been out much, Sire," said the Olog-Hai. "He will be difficult."

"Nardu will not be overly troublesome." The King patted the creature's neck. It turned to look at him, rubbing its beak on his sleeve. "He knows what he must do."

The Olog-Hai strapped the leather bag behind the saddle, checked the buckles to be sure that they held. Satisfied that all was in order, he took his place at the beast's head.

Summoning every scrap of courage in her being, Ariashal went to her husband. For a moment the King took her hand. "You will be safer here. Adzuphel will watch over you." He kissed her hand and swung up onto the beast.

The Olog-Hai released Nardu from the ties. Jumping and plunging, the beast half ran, half hopped across the room. It fought the bridle, skidding on the floor, flapping its huge wings in its attempt to break free, screeching angrily until the King managed to bring it under control.

A sudden blast of cold air announced the opening of the outer doors. Icy wind swept into the room. In the moonlight Ariashal could just make out a balcony, jutting into the deep blue of the night sky.

Turning Nardu into the wind, the King spurred the beast forward. Wings outstretched, the animal ran through the open doors. A few feet from the opening it leapt into the air, plummeting off the edge of the balcony.

Horrified, Ariashal ran to the doors. She reached the opening in time to see the beast sweep past, wings digging into the air. The King wheeled Nardu around for a final pass, then they vanished around the side of the castle. Ariashal's last glimpse was of the King's cloak, billowing out behind him as he disappeared into the night.

With the King away the days passed slowly, with Ariashal spending little time away from her rooms. Truth to tell, she was only too glad to lounge in her bed all day, for she was with child.

Pregnancy was a new experience for her. Never before had she conceived, although, to be fair, she had never before devoted quite so much time and energy to achieving that end, either. All of her former husbands had been lacking, in ability, or desire, or technique. The King had no such difficulties.

She wondered if he already knew about her condition, and if indeed he had planned the whole thing, down to the moment of conception. The more she thought about it, the likelier it seemed. Doubtless it made it easier for him to schedule the rest of his tasks when he knew the precise time she would be brought to childbed. Besides, he enjoyed mastering things; he craved bending nature to his will. Why else would he carve a kingdom out of this land? And why else would he ride flying things like Nardu? Sheer force of will made such things possible.

Ariashal supervised the transformation of one of the smaller rooms into a nursery. It looked out over the mountains, cloaked with snow; a much more inspiring vista than over the smoke- shrouded city. While craftsmen busily created a magnificent suite of furniture for the room, and seamstresses sewed new linens and hangings, Ariashal interviewed servants and wet-nurses. The number of people vying for the jobs amazed her. No child from her previous marriages would have garnered this much attention, no matter how royal they were.

A week passed; then two, then three. With each day Ariashal grew more anxious. Angry black clouds boiled up over the mountains, thunder rumbling within, and she knew that the spells which kept them at bay could not hold much longer. Perhaps now the curse would raise its brutal head, and the King would be blasted from the sky by wind, hail or lightning. And even if he was able to keep the storms under control, what would happen when they were freed of their bonds? What vengeance would they wreak on Angmar and her Witch-King?

One night, as she lay in her bed, she caught the faint sound of wind against the glass. Something in the wind was different; there seemed almost a human cry, of relief, of anguish, of pain--what? She could not tell. Uneasy, she made her way to the big set of windows that overlooked the courtyard.

Straining against the wind, the very glass of the panes seemed to bend. She could feel an icy blast as the wind threaded its way into the room. Below trees bent to the ground, bowing before the force of the wind. In the distance she could see banners rippling. Instinctively she put her hands against the window, trying to force the storm back.

Suddenly there came a loud CRACK, as though a thousand panes of glass shattered. The very tower shuddered. Windows smashed open, scattering shards of glass across the floor, driving Ariashal back to her bed. There was another great crackling, another blast of thunder, and icy sleet drove into the room.

One of the servants came running, dragging blankets behind her. Valiantly she tried to seal the window, but the winds were too great; they forced her back. Slipping on the sleet, she fell into the sea of broken glass. Cut and bleeding, she staggered away, collapsing next to the Queen's bed.

Ariashal dragged the woman onto the bed. "We have to get out of here!" she shouted over the howling winds. "Can you walk?"

"Yes, my Queen," she whimpered.

"Then we must go."

Together, wrapped in one of Ariashal's fur blankets, they half-walked, half-crawled to the door. Ice blasted through the gaping hole where the window had been. Tiny particles of ice slashed their faces, leaving behind blood mixed with melting ice. More ice slammed into them; Ariashal could hear other windows giving way under the onslaught.

When they reached the door Ariashal pounded frantically, shouting for the guards. Could they even hear over the screaming wind? She had to reach them, had to get out of here, before the storm smashed through the wall and buried her in a mass of ice.

The door suddenly swung open. Ariashal tumbled face-forward on the floor, dragging the woman with her. She caught a glimpse of black boots, then heard the familiar voice overhead, issuing commands in a strange, harsh language that she did not understand.

Immediately the shrieking wind stopped.

Trembling, Ariashal looked up at her husband. Taking his hand, she managed to pull herself upright.

"What happened here?"

"The--the storm." She turned to show him the shattered window.

In place of the window was what looked like a solid wall of ice. Glass and melting ice still covered the floor, but the hole itself was now sealed.

"Guards," he ordered, "have this cleaned. What happened to your servant?"

"She was hurt trying to help me."

"Very well. One of you--take this woman to the healers." He slid one arm around Ariashal. "We must get you away from here. I will take you with me."

He half led, half-carried her to his rooms. The guards quickly opened the doors and let them inside. Ariashal tried not to let her fear of what might be lurking within show. Wide-eyed, she passed through the massive doors.

Like her own chambers, those of the King were octagonal. Here, too, the walls were lined with tapestries, and the furniture which occupied the corners was sumptuous beyond anything she had seen. The design was more fluid, the inlays more delicate; her own furniture, which she had thought so rich, was but a pale imitation of this.

He led her to an intricately inlaid chair, with cushions of delicate blue silk. She hesitated. "I am soaked. It will ruin the chair."

"The silk can be replaced." He left her for a moment. Shivering, she watched him pull a black shirt from one of the chests. "Here. This is dry."

She willingly dumped the wet mass of cloth and fur on the floor before putting on the too- large shirt. Safe now, she settled onto the delicate chair.

He crouched next to her. "You are certain that you are unhurt."

"Yes." She gripped his robes. "I--I was afraid that you were out in this storm. I was afraid that you would never come home."

"No, my queen. I waited until I was safely within the tower before releasing the storms."

Something in his voice caught her attention, something she had never heard before. "You are weary, my lord."

"Twas a long journey."

"Come to me, then."

Slowly, somewhat stiffly, he sat on the floor before her. Ariashal pushed aside his robes and began to massage his shoulders. She could feel the tense muscles relax, feel the stiffness melting away. Every now and then he sighed in pleasure, encouraging her to continue. She was going to suggest that he might be more comfortable elsewhere when she heard a different, rumbling sound from beneath the hood. She bent closer to be certain of what she heard.

Snoring.

Ariashal dared not disturb him. Gently, tenderly, she cradled his head in her lap. And for the first time in her marriage, she held her husband as he slept.


	10. Herumor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

With the Queen's chambers damaged, and a baby on the way, it was decided that Ariashal would move into the King's rooms. Like her own, this room was an octagon, and it too had the magic protections inlaid in the floor. These too were of precious metals, but there were also jewels set into them, sparkling in the soft blue light shed by the silver sconces.

His bed was hung with heavy black velvet drapes. It was so dark inside that no light penetrated; it was like being in a cave. It was also higher than her own bed. A footstool was brought so that she could manage to get on and off without injury.  
  
There were several other rooms in his suite. Adzuphel took the time to show them to her, so that she would not feel quite so uncomfortable. One was a small council room, where meetings, either late or emergency, could take place. He pointed out the massive doors that led to the King's magic study, but she would not go any nearer to them than she must. Instead he led her back to the largest door in the suite.

"This is his library, and I daresay it ranks amongst the finest in all of Middle-Earth. Here are housed the rarest of manuscripts. In here are the tomes of magic, books that some men think exist only in legend. There are ancient scrolls in here, too, some even written in the language of the Valar themselves, and many fine, painted books. His Majesty loves books, madame. He has agents hunting the world over for volumes to add to his collection. I believe he has even negotiated with dragons for some of the rarest ones."

"But I thought you said that he did not deal with the dragons."

Adzuphel laughed. "When it comes to books, madame, the King will deal with the Elves themselves. Books, and anything from Numenor."

"Numenor? Numenor drowned ages ago!"

"Aye, indeed. These tapestries, much of the King's regalia, many books--are from Numenor. So is much of the jewelry he has given you. He has a great passion for things Numenorean. Sometimes, when his--brethren visit, they spend the entire time speaking nothing but that long- dead tongue."

"The black robes? Have they been visiting?"

Adzuphel shifted uneasily. "Well, my Queen, truth to tell, there have always been visits. Even now one is staying here in Carn Dum."

"Which one?" she demanded, her heart pounding. "Khamul?"

"Oh, no. He almost never visits. No, this one is called Herumor. He is one of the ones who speaks Numenorean."

"How long has he been here?"

"I would not leave until I was certain that there was someone else to watch you."

She spun around. The King stood in the door, his massive frame blocking the entrance.

"My Lord! You startled me. I did not hear you."

He came to her. "I have known Herumor for a very long time. Adzuphel is a good man, but he is no sorcerer. Herumor is a competent one. I would not leave you vulnerable to any attack while I was away, and I trusted Herumor to protect you."

"I see," she said, relieved. "Where is he? I would like to thank him."

"He will be down later. You will meet then. I trust that you find my rooms to your liking?"

"Very much so."

"Good. You may use the library, if you wish. There are a few volumes in Westron and Sindarin. I do not know what you will make of them, but looking will do no harm."

"Thank you."

He kissed her hand. "I had best leave you now, that you may continue your move."

She watched the bodyguards surround him outside the door. Permission to use a magic library was not something she had ever expected to receive in her lifetime, and now that she had it, she did not know what to do. Best to leave it alone, and finish settling in.

 

  
She finally met Herumor that evening, when he was invited to eat with them.

He was tall, though not as tall as the King. He had a slight accent, which she could not quite place, and a rather archaic inflection that made the simplest sentence sound grand. He was unfailingly polite, and it seemed to her that this was a natural part of his character, not something done merely to impress her. From his conversation she gathered that he had learned spell casting from the King. That he was in awe of his master's abilities was undeniable. Small wonder, then, that he had been asked to watch the castle.

After he left Ariashal sorted out her feelings about him. Obviously the King thought him trustworthy. He did not frighten her, he treated her with respect, he had the confidence of the King. She decided that she would get to know him better, and that he could stay.

When she informed the king of her decision, he agreed that she could speak with Herumor again, and that if she felt sufficiently comfortable with him around, he would come and stay whenever the King had to leave her behind. It was a relief, somehow, to know that there was another around who could wield magic, even if he was one of the black robes.

 

  
Months crawled by. It seemed as if the winter storms would never end; they wanted vengeance for being held in check. Ariashal settled into the King's chambers as best she could, although they were considerably darker than she preferred, and she was more than a little uneasy about her pregnancy with the magic study nearby. For her benefit the King cast an impressive spell over the door to the study. White flames flickered along the edges of the doors, inscribing strange symbols across the doors themselves. Satisfied that nothing would attack from the study, she was finally able to relax.

Nights were much the same as before. He was still attentive with her, despite the pregnancy. They must be careful of the child, so he was extremely gentle with her, treating her as though she were made of glass. Gone were the days of straddling him while he carried her to the wall, or of clutching the curtains while he took her from behind. She missed the wild, frenetic nights, and longed for when they could resume.

Usually he spent the better part of the night reading, often in the library. He did not need much sleep; he usually rested for a few hours, then was ready to work again, as refreshed as if he had spent the entire night asleep. Ariashal suspected that he slept next to her more from a desire to keep her safe than from any real need for rest. Indeed, whenever he did wish to rest, it was during the brightest part of the day. He would retreat into the black sanctuary of the bed, draw the curtains, and sleep. Ariashal never disturbed these rests, for although she longed to watch over him she knew he would find her presence intrusive. Instead she waited outside, sewing, embroidering elegant golden patterns onto her shifts, hoping that the runes could keep the curse away.

Other times she would awaken during the night to find him examining some odd piece of metal or stone. He never used more than the dim blue light of the magic sconces, which only made the room feel that much colder. Occasionally she would call to him, to remind him that it was late, and he would best be in bed. Usually he gave a noncommital answer, never looking away from his work. Oft times she would go to him, gently massage his shoulders and back. Sometimes he reached back and held her hand, sometimes he murmured thanks, sometimes he did not seem to be aware of her at all.  
  
Of late he had been poring over astrological charts and maps, plotting points and making notations in a strange script. The child was not due for at least seven weeks; perhaps he was trying to find the most advantageous day for her to be brought to bed. She rubbed her distended belly and hoped all would go well.

 

 

 

The onset of the winter storms meant the beginning of what Adzuphel referred to as ‘party season'. Two or three times a week there was a gathering of some sort at the castle. Usually there were feasts, with music and dancing. Sometimes there were simple plays, and there were a few individuals who performed such feats as juggling or acrobatics.

Ariashal, robed in magnificent velvet and fur gowns, sat alongside the King while the diversions played out before them. She knew that much of this was for her; the King merely tolerated it. He preferred gatherings where he could observe the behavior of his more powerful lords and commanders. On such occasions he wandered about the room, Ariashal at his side, exchanging a few words here and there with the guests, all of whom treated the King with a mixture of reverence, awe, and fear.

It was at one of these that someone asked the King when there would be a day of reckoning.

"Soon," said the King, and the man departed.

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"A few times a year we hold the executions and trials by combat in the arena. We are overdue for such a day, and there are some who are growing restless. While I will not be ruled by a mob, the people need their entertainment."

"Do you go to them?"

"I must," he said. "I sit in judgement, and must see that the sentences are carried out."

"Then perhaps you should hold one of these--days of reckoning."

"Would it please you to see it?"

"It would please me to see you sit in judgement."

"Very well. We shall hold one by the end of the week."

Ariashal thought about the upcoming display of justice for most of the remainder of the evening. Both in Rhudaur and when living with the Hill folk, she had seen her share of violence. People were killed daily; her own husband had been killed in a drunken duel during a feast. This Day of Reckoning promised to be a relief from the raw anarchy she had witnessed.


	11. Day of Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

For the Day of Reckoning she was robed in a magnificent black velvet gown, lined with a vivid red satin. Its grand train was carried by three of her women. She wore the sun necklace, along with a spectacular gold pectoral that hung to her waist. Her hair was braided back, with strands of jewels plaited into it, and she wore the elegant gold crown from her coronation.

The King wore the same ensemble from the wedding. He waited for her outside his rooms, surrounded by his advisors and the members of his household guard. When she approached, one of the guards gave a signal. In the distance a trumpet sounded, followed by drums.

For what seemed like miles they walked, through long, sloping corridors and down flights of stairs. They were no longer within the castle; they were well into the mountain itself. Everything-- the halls, the stairs, all had been carved from the living rock, smoothed and polished to perfection. As they made their way deeper into the mountain, she began to hear echoing cheers, shouts, drums. Hopefully they were getting close; she was tired, and longed to rest.

At a pair of wooden doors they stopped. The King adjusted his regalia, and Ariashal followed suit. He nodded and the guards threw open the doors.

Together they walked out onto a balcony, draped with red and black cloth, a black canopy overhead. Before them was a vast arena, carved from a natural cavern within the mountain. Silvery blue stones, set in the walls, filled the space with a soft, cold light. Seats were filled to overflowing; she could see row upon row of orcs, men, and other creatures. Beneath them a pair of gray trolls swept the red sand of the arena floor. The King escorted her to a high-backed chair, set close to the balcony rail. Once she was settled he walked to the front of the balcony and held up a hand.

The crowd fell silent.

"The Day of Reckoning has come."

Cheering and stomping, the crowd roared its approval. The King took the throne. "Now," he said to Ariashal, "you will see justice done."

At first there was nothing to see. Guards marched across the arena floor, disappearing through some doors. The trolls still swept, even though the floor seemed smooth enough. Ariashal turned her attention to the audience. What had at first seemed a random crowd was actually carefully divided. In front of each orcish section was a banner: black star on red, yellow hand on white, white arrows on green, and many more; probably tribal or clannish insignia. The orcish areas were further divided from each other by substantial stone walls, and guards were posted by the walls, presumably to keep the peace.

Men and other non-orcs occupied a different seating level. The mix of ethnicities was even more pronounced here than when she had first entered the city. She could see the plain dress of Hillmen, the colorful headdress of the Southern and Eastern folk, the full robes of Dunedain. In another area were smaller seats, filled with bearded dwarves and hobbits. Trolls and their kin had their own area, where they would not block the view of other spectators.

Something was happening on the floor. A massive man with a long red beard, wearing the Angmar colors, strode to the center of the arena. The trolls lumbered out the door.

"Bring out the condemned," ordered the big man.

A row of guards led out a score of prisoners, chained together at wrist and ankle. A few of the prisoners stumbled, others stared at the crowd, some spat and cursed. Behind them walked a pair of tall men, robed and hooded in red, carrying long, slightly curved swords. The group shuffled to the center of the arena and waited.

These were the simple executions. The bearded man read a name, a prisoner would be brought forward, a list of crimes announced, and then one of the tall men would step up and neatly behead the guilty.

The list of crimes was typical, almost banal: murder, rape, theft. Sometimes the convict's name was recognized by people in the crowd, sparking threats and shouts. Or the list of crimes would be heinous enough to cause an explosion of anger. Most of the condemned ignored the insults, but one man began to scream curses at the guards. The big man kicked his legs from beneath him, and he was quickly beheaded.

When the last of these was decapitated, a troll pushed a wagon into the arena. Some orcs tossed the remains onto it, then followed as the troll trundled the bodies away.

Next were the more serious crimes, demanding more elaborate executions. The guards brought out each convict individually, while the bearded man read the list of crimes, and the method of execution proscribed for each prisoner. Most were decapitated, but a few required special treatment. After each execution the crowd stamped its feet, cheering and shouting.

A man who had been caught spying for Cardolan was condemned to roasting over a fire. However, because of the number of executions still to be performed, it was decided that he would be impaled instead. Accordingly a pair of guards brought out large spears. They stuck the man in the abdomen, then raised the spears so that he would slide down them. But he was fighting and writhing so intensely that he jammed partway down; he hung there, screaming, as his life bled away. The crowd cheered as his blood spattered down.

There were a few more beheadings, another impalement--this one more successful--and a woman who was sentenced to boil. In the interest of expediency, this was commuted to beheading. Once again the trolls brought out the wagon. They picked up the remains, except for the one impaled man, who stubbornly refused to die. The orcs kicked him a few times, but still he clung to life. Finally one of the trolls tore the man's head off, delighting the crowd. Problem solved, the bearded man announced the next round of events--trials by combat.

First into the arena were three snow-trolls, mired in an argument over possession of a female snow-troll. Ariashal had never seen anything quite like them. Their white skin, white hair and blue lips contrasted vividly with the red sand of the arena floor. They wore heavy pelts, crudely fastened at the shoulders and belted. Each carried a wooden shield and a club. They lumbered towards the balcony, stopping a few feet from the royal box.

The King stood and addressed them. "You shall proceed. Justice shall prevail."

The trolls bowed and began to fight.

It was obvious that the crowd loved the trials by combat. Oh, they might cheer and shout during the regular executions, but that was _nothing_ compared to the howls and shrieks that accompanied the battles. One of the snow-trolls fell early, leaving the other two free to smash and pound away. They were sloppy, ill-disciplined fighters, swinging their clubs almost randomly. When one finally fell, the crowd cheered the victor as he staggered, bleeding, out of the arena.

Next into the arena were four sets of two men, here to settle various disputes. The King gave the same blessing, combatants bowed, and blood flowed. Once they were finished, a new group of warring parties entered the arena, and the process began anew.

Most trials ended quickly, and quite a number ended without a death. To Ariashal's surprise the King seemed to prefer those that did not end with a carcass in the sand; everywhere else she had lived expected a death from such trials. Certainly the Hillfolk wanted to see death, and she could not recall her father disapproving of it, either.

"Tis a waste to lose men in this manner," he explained. "Our population is small enough as it is. Every man who dies is a loss to Angmar and my army. But I fear such displays are necessary to keep the peace."

 

A few more duels ended quickly, one with a violent blow that disemboweled one contestant, the other when one man flung down his sword and quit. One last pair continued to fight, albeit in a desultory, half-hearted manner. The crowd booed and hissed, screaming insults at the two.  
  
Suddenly the men stopped. "For Arnor!" they cried. Whirling around, swords held high, they charged towards the royal box.

The King's voice split the air.

For a moment the two seemed to hang, suspended, in mid-stride. With a horrific shriek, their skulls ripped free from their heads; their bodies split open; their guts spilled to the ground. The bodies collapsed, twitching, as the last of the blood spurted onto the sand.

There was a long moment of silence.  
  
"Hail to the king!" cried someone in the crowd, and soon the whole arena vibrated with the chant and the stomping of feet. As the trolls removed the bodies, spectators threw bits of garbage at the would-be assassins. Guards did not even try to stop them.

Ariashal stayed in her seat, heart pounding, desperately trying to fight down the fear. The curse, the curse had followed her here; and she was very lucky that it had not worked tonight. What had she done? Had she not wanted it to be real, when first she heard of this marriage? Had she not hoped that it would take this husband, too? She had, she knew she had, and she knew she had damned him. The first man she had grown attached to, the first man she had begun to love, and she would be his downfall. She could not believe what she had done, she could not do this to him, she could not--

"The Queen is ill," said the King. "Bring a litter and take her to my chambers."

 

  
Back in their rooms, comfortable in her dressing gown, Ariashal curled up on the bed and cried. There had to be a way out of this, there must be a way to spare him. Perhaps if she left, now, he would be saved. She would go into exile, and when the child was born she would send it to its father, where it would live in comfort. She, meanwhile, would live on roots and berries, and eke out the miserable existence she deserved.

"Twas not the blood that upset you."

She had not even heard him enter the room.

He sat on the edge of the bed, gently drawing her to him. She buried her face in his robes. "Was it the magic? Tis not a pretty spell, I know."

"No, my Lord." Desperately she clung to him, like a drowning man to his savior.

"The child, then. You should not tire yourself."

She shook her head and clung tighter. "No, my Lord. It is me--it is my curse. I have damned you by coming here. You will be killed because of me!"

"Ariashal," he said softly, "there is no curse. You will not be the cause of my death, I assure you."  
  
"But those men--if they had succeeded--"

"They could not. I promise you that."

"No," she sobbed. "I have damned you."

"Ariashal, listen to me. There is no curse upon you. And as far as damning me, I did that to myself long ago."

"How could you have done that? I will be your downfall!"

"No, you will not." He began to stroke her head.

"You do not understand," she sobbed. "I love you."

He froze, clutching her so tightly she could barely breathe.

"Never say that," he hissed, voice hard. "Never. The repercussions of that for us both will be far more horrific than anything you can possibly imagine."

"What? Why? Why can I not--"

"Because you must not." His grip tightened. "Unless you wish to damn us both, you will never utter that phrase again."

"But I cannot help what I feel," she whispered.

"Neither can I." He crushed her against his body. "Nor can I forget what I have endured. If you truly believe what you say, you will never speak those words again."

"I--"

"Swear it!"

"I swear--" she choked, "I swear I will never say it again." It was as if she plunged a dagger into her heart.

"Good." He drew his cloak over her. She could feel his tense muscles gradually relax. "I think you must rest. This is not good for you, or the child." He began to stroke her head, whispering in a language she did not understand.

She began to feel pleasantly drowsy, enveloped in a warm, safe cocoon; and before she knew it, she was fast asleep.


	12. A New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

It seemed that spring would never come to Carn Dum. Drifts of snow, stained black from coal smoke, piled along the streets. The sky was unrelentingly gray, and on the rare days when the sun appeared, it brought no warmth. Smoke from countless coal fires hung low over the city, increasing the cold gloom.

High in the castle, Ariashal waited for the birth of her child.

Her women fussed over her, trying to help her prepare. Wet-nurses moved into the royal nursery, along with a small army of servants to cater to the baby's needs. Numerous gifts of blankets and toys arrived daily from the members of Angmarim society, along with notes and other small tokens of affection. Ariashal sorted through them all, selecting those which she wished to keep and sending the others home with her servants.

The King was in almost constant motion, checking and rechecking his charts and papers. Every now and then he would disappear into his study, never staying long. Never much of a sleeper, he now forswore slumber completely, concentrating instead on the preparation of spells.

Ariashal understood that he was trying to keep someone--or something--from stealing their newborn child. She tried not to think about what it must be that he was trying to keep at bay, nor what would happen if he should fail.

Herumor moved into their chambers, that he might help with the incantations. The two wizards spent hours poring over the charts and spell books, speaking a strange, harsh language she did not understand. Adzuphel was now the only other soul permitted into the rooms. He brought their meals, removed soiled clothes, gave Ariashal the greetings and blessings of the rest of the court; any messages for the King would have to wait. From him Ariashal learned that the entire city was on alert, with guards posted everywhere. The castle itself was fully armed, as though they were expecting a siege.

One afternoon she sat by the windows overlooking the mountains. Snow fluttered down, heavy, wet flakes that stuck to the rock. Would the snows never end? Being locked in here was depressing enough, without the added misery of iron-gray skies and wet snow.

She felt a sudden pain in her stomach.

Calmly, slowly, she made her way to her husband and Herumor, lost in their texts. "My Lord," she called, "it is time."

Quickly they laid her on the bed. Herumor collected some white cloths, which he carefully placed at the end of the bed. They began to chant, all the while pulling the drapes shut and sealing them with strange iron pins. When they had finished the King stood at her right, near her head; Herumor at her left, towards her legs. The King held his hands over her head and began his spell.

Half-spoken, half-sung, it was in a language strange and harsh, yet Ariashal felt warm, safe, secure. She was being wound into a cocoon of well-being so strong she was only dimly aware of the sensations in her abdomen. She had a vague sense that something was prowling outside the bed, trying to breach the curtains. For some reason this did not alarm her; she was safe here, knowing that whatever it was could not reach her.

There was a dull ache in her stomach; it was as if her insides were being pulled from her body. Oddly enough there was little pain; she had expected to be screaming in agony by now, yet all she wanted to do was lie still. She could hear Herumor speaking, another spell, probably-- it no longer mattered. She was swirling in warmth, bathing in an ocean of it, so serene and secure that she barely noticed the cessation of the pulling. She could stay here for the rest of forever, here in a place where nothing could touch her, where she felt neither hunger nor pain nor the passage of time.

Something touched her, someone was calling her name, bringing her out of the warmth. She tried to resist, to stay at peace a while longer. But the voice was insistent. Slowly she opened her eyes, forcing herself to focus.

She could see a tiny bundle, wrapped in white clothes, stark against the blackness of the drapes, held aloft by a pair of black gloves.

"Look, Ariashal," said the voice, "we have a son."

She managed to look at the little thing, squirming in its covering. Black hair, eyes still closed, tiny hands balled into fists. She closed her eyes, falling back into the warmth.


	13. Family Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

"Momma! Look!"

Ariashal never glanced up from her embroidery. She was seated on a private balcony, carved from the mountain so it would be shielded from the constant winds. It faced away from the city, so that she never had to see or smell the noxious smoke.

Below her was a walled garden, carved from within the mountain. Some of the giant boulders were left in place, jutting intrusively from the paved garden floor. In the center was a small fortress, with miniature siege engines scattered about. Trees shaded the garden, a waterfall splashed into a pool. A pair of white wolves lay attentively in the shade, alert to all activity.

"Momma! Look!"

Sighing, she laid aside her work to see what her children demanded of her.

Imrahil, the eldest, had managed to gain the lower branches of one tree. Tall and sturdy, he was as fearless and confident as his father. His hair was long, wavy, black; Ariashal suspected he had inherited that from his father as well. From her had come rounded features and soft blue eyes.

"Let me up!"

Adrahil, her second born, struggled to climb the tree. Like his brother he was tall for his age. Unlike his brother, his features were more angular, reminiscent of the men depicted on the Numenorean tapestries that graced the castle's walls. He could be stubborn, willful, difficult. Already he was resisting the lessons of his tutors, preferring to practice with his sword.

On the other side of the garden, her daughter Zimraphel busied herself in the dirt. Her nurses kept a close watch on her, for she was insatiably curious, forever digging into things. Ariashal often heard her speaking with her guardian wolves.

There were other children here as well, offspring of Angmarim nobility and society chosen as playmates for the young Royals. Also running around were some of the servants' children, not from any desire for democracy, but from the need to keep a good mix of ages and sexes around. And if any friendships formed from the playground, so much the better. The royal children would need confidantes as they grew older.

Ariashal noted that her husband treated his children equally. They had all, to some degree or another, inherited his gift for sorcery; he had begun giving them simple lessons. He played no favorites with them, never praised one at the expense of the others. She much preferred this method. It was a far cry from her father and his endless testing of her brothers, or the not-so - subtle reminders of her own feminine inferiority.

Ariashal could not quite believe the changes that had taken place over the years. Her father had died recently; she only learned of it when a brief message sent to the King made a passing reference to the fact that her brother was now in control of Rhudaur. That she found out in such a roundabout way only added further turmoil to her feelings about her old family. They never acknowledged the letters sent when her children were born; never once wrote to inquire after their health. She was uncertain whether they were surprised to think that she had actually borne children, or if they preferred to not think of her at all.

The fact that her old family no longer wanted her made her even more passionate and possessive towards her new one. During the day she had the children's education to supervise; at night she had the King's needs to tend. After the birth of Zimraphel, she and the King agreed to have no more children. He was forced to resort to ever-more elaborate rituals to keep her and the unborn child safe from harm. Whatever it was that wanted his offspring, it was growing ever bolder and more dangerous. The risks to all were too great. Accordingly she drank the foul-smelling potion he mixed for her, thus ending her child-bearing.

It did not end her love life. Removing the chance of pregnancy increased their desire. Now they could engage in any activity they wished, without the fear of creating a life. For the first time she was able to explore some of the frontiers of sexuality, with a man capable of pleasing her. She was well aware of his limits; she knew better than to try and dominate him, even in play. Much easier to give herself over to him, to let him do as he would, trusting him to stop before hurting her.

In turn she had managed to gain his trust, something which she had thought impossible. He was considerably less guarded around her; she even managed to get him to laugh. He was comfortable enough with her that he no longer kept completely swathed in cloth. She quickly adjusted to the sight of bits of clothing moving about the room apparently of its own will.

And she had even grown used to the flying beasts. A few times she had actually braved going for rides with the King. She sat in front of him, braced against the saddle, while he handled the reins and kept Nardu under control. Her first few flights were low and slow. She marveled at the power in the wings, at the way the ground slipped past, the way the wind felt in her hair. As she gained confidence he took her on longer flights, far out into the mountain peaks. Here they found a refuge far from Carn Dum, where they could be utterly alone.

It was during one of these interludes that she learned the truth about her old family.

They were laying on his great cloak, in a small cave sheltered from the sighing winds. Ariashal had learned to read his moods, despite the fact that she could not see him. Now she knew that something was troubling him. It had bothered him during the ride here, during their lovemaking, and it was bothering him now. She recognized this mood. He would not talk unless she asked him.

"My lord," she began, gently stroking his chest, "something has upset you. What is it?"

He drew a long breath. "I did not wish to burden you with this, but I fear you have come to know me too well. It is your brother. He has reneged on our treaty."

That idiot! "How?"

"He wanted to renegotiate after your father died, and I refused. He has not sent his annual tribute for four years. I forgave him one year, for they had a drought. Now he says that he is no longer my vassal, and that he will do as he pleases. And he wants our daughter as a bride for his grandson."

"No! He will not take her!"

"She is too young to even consider marrying, so she is in no danger. He is my vassal, whether or not he wishes to believe otherwise. I have not been forced to take the field for many years, Ariashal. I had hoped that the treaty would keep my southern borders peaceful for some time, long enough for the population to grow. I see now that this is impossible. This summer I will have to go on an inspection of the fortifications along the border. While there I will hold a full review. Perhaps that will convince him of the error he has made, and he will not take advantage of my patience in the future."

"I would very much like to accompany you."

"Of course you will. It will be good for the children. They need to understand their kingdom, and be seen by the people."

"When do you plan to leave?"

"In a few weeks, when the grass is ready. I am not ready to wage war against them; my army is still too small. I have many orcs, but they are ill-disciplined at the best of times. I will see what has happened, and if needs be I will send east for more men. Khamul will not fail to supply me."

"Khamul! I thought you hated Khamul."

"I do not hate Khamul. We merely see things differently. As an example, he thinks that I should have a harem, and sire no children by my concubines. I see my children as my most loyal allies.

"There have been times when I disliked him. But he is a man of his word, and he will do what is needed. To speak truthfully, if I can avoid going to the east for men I would be much happier. I want as little to do with the east as is possible."

"Maybe my brother will be reasonable."

"Perhaps. It will be much better for all if he submits gracefully."  



	14. Treachery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

  
The journey back to Rhudaur followed the same road that Ariashal had taken so many years ago. As Queen she had a more elaborate version of the enclosed carriage. Painted red and trimmed with gold, it glittered against the stark gray of the peaks, and shone against the vivid greens of the forests. The King rode alongside her carriage, mounted on a spirited, prancing black stallion. The children traveled with her, although the boys wanted to have their own mounts so they could gallop off and explore the wilder areas. This neither she nor the King permitted, although they were allowed to ride about with their father when the court stopped for the night. Usually they circled the encampment, inspecting the men, speaking with the watchmen.

Many of the small towns that she had visited had grown considerably, and most sported new walls and earthworks. There was always a review of the troops, with everyone turned out in their most resplendent armor. The King usually rode his horse along the rows of men, occasionally addressing a few words to one or another of the soldiers. At other times the troops marched past a specially-constructed viewing stage for the royal family, shouting war slogans as they paraded by. The pageantry delighted the children, and Ariashal admitted to no small thrills watching the splendid forces pass.

Later the royal family was invariably given a tour of the fortifications, with the local notable proudly explaining the importance of the site, and describing the strength of the defenses. They were only too willing to account for all the money spent on building projects, to explain why the King's coin was well-spent here. Often the King asked about specific features, usually problems that had been brought to his attention. Most of these had been repaired to his satisfaction; the rest were still under construction.  
  
If they stayed at the castle, a feast and entertainment was arranged for them. Most of the local productions ranged from pathetic to amateurish, although there were usually one or two performers whose skill made the evenings bearable. More than once Ariashal admonished the children for misbehaving during the little pageants. However awful they were, she explained, they were created out of affection for them and their father, and the least they could do was respect that. Two warnings and the children were banished for the remainder of the evening. Things were difficult enough without additional turmoil.

 

 

As they drew closer to Rhudaur the number of couriers traveling from the royal party to the Rhudaurian court increased. Adzuphel dealt with most of them, reporting back to the King.

The news was not good. At the first word of the traveling Angmarim court, the King of Rhudaur had suddenly remembered urgent business closer to Cardolan. Ariashal could not imagine what he was doing in Cardolan, and suspected the worst. The King kept his own counsel, but she knew that he was angry, and growing increasingly so. She sought to ease his mind, to soothe and relax him, but she shared his misgivings and worried with him over what sort of plot her brother was crafting.

Soon they reached the lands of the Hillfolk, not yet annexed to Angmar. She did not want to admit to herself how much she enjoyed her old subjects reacting with awe to her presence. Granted, they were in awe of the King, but she was enjoying the reflected glory. Seeing the young man who had murdered her husband as he now was, middle-aged and battle-scarred, was more satisfying than she expected. Here was the very man who had wanted her banished for barrenness, now bowing before her children.

A fleeting thought struck her. If not for him, she would never have become Queen of Angmar, never known the exquisite pleasure of the King, never borne children. Perhaps she should reward him.

When the time came for his audience, she silently gave him a golden bracelet, a plain ring incised with elaborate geometric patterns. He took it, backing away from her without ever daring to meet her gaze. He did not recognize the significance of the gift, and she had no intention of enlightening him.

It was here, in the long house she had once shared with the king of the Hillmen, that the nature of the Rhudaurian treachery became clear. A temporary throne room was set up, with the King's traveling throne and other furniture filling the rough building. At the back, near where Ariashal had once slept, there now stood the stately, portable bed of the King, its red draperies brilliant against the aged wood of the walls. Near it was a smaller bed, for the royal children. Carpets woven with various bold geometric patterns had been laid over the straw-strewn dirt floor. Some of the King's bodyguards stood about the room, pikes at the ready.

Messengers from Cardolan arrived, nervous, anxious to speak with the King. They had been supplying mercenaries to Rhudaur for the last year or so, building up the army for what they understood to be an attack on Angmar. Their prince had received regular payments from Rhudaur for the lest few years, all earmarked for creating this mercenary force.

However, the recent arrival of the Angmarim court had caused their prince to have a change of heart. He no longer felt that Rhudaur would protect him; in fact, he now began to feel abandoned. To show his good faith, he had sent with them detailed lists of the forces, including their current placements. If it was not too late, the emissaries pleaded, perhaps a new understanding could be reached.

Ariashal listened as they pled their case. She watched them sweat, watched them shift uneasily while the King silently read the parchments they brought. She knew that they would get no answer tonight; the King would want to study this, check and confer with his own men before giving the Cardolani any response. And she knew perfectly well that, even if he had already made up his mind, he would make them wait, and sweat, and worry.

He eventually dismissed them, promising to answer them tomorrow. It was not what they wanted to hear, for they immediately began to protest. Had they not come in good faith; had they not brought evidence of Rhudaurian treachery? They needed an answer, and they demanded one now.

For a moment the King was silent. "Tell your prince," he began, "that I am master of my own kingdom, and am master of many others besides. It is not the place of his emissaries to order me about on my own lands."

"You will respond, Witch-king," hissed the bolder of them. "My prince insists upon an answer!"

"If your prince wished an answer, then he should not have come before me disguised as a messenger. He should have come as himself, and not attempted a deception far beneath me!"

Stunned, the two stood still.

"Nor would he have tried to deceive me with information and intelligence gathered long ago." The King slapped the papers against the arm of the throne. "He would have come to me in honor, instead of stealth. He would have brought no assassin with him to attempt my murder."

"I did not come to kill you!" shouted the prince.

"Then why do you carry Elven blades? Do you think me blind and unable to see such magic?"

A sudden wind ripped through the hall, blowing their cloaks away from their sides, revealing the presence of the deadly weapons. One movement of the King's hand, and the Elven arms clattered to the floor.

Guards moved to surround the two. The bold one found his voice. "You will not withstand us, Witch-king. I will bring you down!"

"You? You will do nothing of the sort. You will leave here, and you will not return. And if by chance you should choose to return, I promise I will not be as hospitable next time." He motioned to the door, and the guards seized the two. "This charade is a dishonor to your house, and an insult to mine. Go back to that company of horsemen you have hidden in the hills. Go back to Amon Sul, and reflect upon what happens to those who dare trick me!"

 

  
Ariashal waited until they were long gone. "How--how did you know?"

"Clumsy fools. The deomer from the blades shone across the room."

She laid a hand on his. "I am sorry for the trouble I have caused."

"And what trouble is that? Your brother's foolish duplicity is not your doing. I know that you are loyal. The Cardolani will pay for their insolence."

For the remainder of the day she found herself watching for any signs of the Cardolani. She made the children play indoors, despite the clear blue skies that beckoned outside. Guards were on the alert as well, keeping a close eye on their royal charges. She was relieved when nothing happened, and was finally able to climb, exhausted from worry, into bed.


	15. Screams in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

Something heavy crashed into the side of the building.

Ariashal sat up. She was alone. The fire was dead, the Hillman's hall utterly black, black and cold. Not a normal cold, but a sickening, deadly cold, a liquid cold that froze the air and chilled the heart, a cold that made each breath agony. Outside the wind was howling, shaking the timbers of the long house.

"Momma?"

She crawled to the edge of the bed, dragging one of the fur blankets over her. The children- -she had to get to her children, to protect them from the awful, hideous cold. She managed to get from her bed and into theirs, pulling the draperies closed behind her. Their nurse was nowhere to be found; she must have fled when the cold began to grow intense. Ariashal would deal with her tomorrow.

"It's cold," began Imrahil.

"I know." It hurt to speak; instinctively she dropped her voice to a whisper. "All of you, come under my blanket with me. We will keep each other warm."

Shivering, shaking, they gathered beneath her great fur blanket. She pulled it over their heads, making it into a simple tent. Here, protected by the blanket, they began to feel some warmth.

"Where's papa?" whispered Zimraphel.

"He's taking care of this," said Adrahil, confident in his father's prowess. Ariashal held him close, praying, hoping that he was right.

A hideous cry rent the air.

Horrified, they collapsed together on the bed. Sickening fear, terror, despair--all washed over them, flooding the room in a cold mass of horror. They could not run; the fear was too great, and with the fear came a second wave of the deadly cold. Ariashal managed to drag herself over her children, desperate to protect them; but even as she did so the cold robbed her of hope. They would soon be dead; there was nothing that could save them now. She felt a cruel pang of loss for the King; she would die without ever seeing him again, and he would return to find his family dead.

Slowly, gradually, the cold began to recede, and with it went the terror. They might just live, after all. It was still deathly cold, the room still pulsed with fear, but she sensed that the worst of it had passed. She eased off of the children, giving them a little air. Yes, the terror was definitely departing, dragging the cold away with it. Soon they could leave their little refuge, and spread out on the bed.

A second wailing cry echoed through the room.

This one held no terror; it was more a cry of pain. It hung in the air for a few seconds, then was lost in the shrieking wind. To Ariashal it seemed that it had come from farther away, as if whatever made the noise was leaving, perhaps being driven off or even killed. She hoped and prayed that the screamer was gone for good, that it had been slain and all would again be peaceful.

She let the blanket slip down. It was definitely warmer now, almost warm enough to climb free of the blankets. In a few minutes she would have to go and see about rousing servants to start a fire.

Someone was coming. She could hear heavy footsteps, see the bobbing of a torch. It was not the King; he never used torches, or indeed any lights at all. Instinctively she gathered her children into her arms.

The curtain drew back. By the flickering light she could make out the features of Adzuphel, although never before had she seen him like this. Blood smeared across his face and chest, his eyes wide with fear, he looked as though he had just battled the army of death.

"We are undone," he said, shaking. "They have captured the King!"

"What? What happened?"

"He cast spells to drive them away, and then followed them on his horse. They shot his horse so that it fell down the hill. By the time we caught up, they had taken him captive."

"Then--that awful screaming--that was them?"

"No, Madame. The first was one of his spells. The second was when they brought him down."

The full impact of what Adzuphel was saying hit her. She had hoped and prayed for the destruction of the screamer, and she had gotten her wish.

The curse had finally come to pass.


	16. Tower of  Torment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

  
The remainder of the night was a blur. Various advisors, civilian and military, crowded into the long house. Ariashal was extremely grateful for Adzuphel: he managed to co-ordinate everything, digesting the conflicting reports as they came in from the field, ordering the movements of the troops, sending off for reinforcements. Periodically he would speak to her, reassuring her that the Cardolani would not keep the King captive for long, that they would treat him well.

She nodded, trying to keep up a brave front, not for herself, but for the children. They were so confident of their father's prowess that they knew he would be back by dawn, or by tomorrow nightfall at the latest. Had he not made lightning dance for them? Did he not control the flying beasts? They had seen him make tiny flames trace elegant patterns on the ground, watched him shatter rock with a single word. They knew that he was invincible. This was, at most, a minor inconvenience.

Ariashal longed to share their confidence, their absolute faith in his indestructibility; but she knew better. She knew what her father and brothers did when they captured enemies, especially enemy commanders. The Cardolani were no better, and from what she had heard tended to be much worse. She must speak with Adzuphel, must warn him of the King's fate.

He led her away from the others, where she could be comfortably seated. "Madame," he said quietly, "I do not think you should worry yourself overmuch."

"You do not understand," she said. "They will do whatever they can to him."  
  
Adzuphel listened as she recounted the lists of tortures her family had used. Beatings, floggings, hot pokers--they would use everything they had. And she knew that sometimes they forced themselves on those who would not break, even using weapons to violate their prisoners.

"They may want to," he soothed, "and they may try, but I promise you they will not get very far. I assure you that they cannot harm him."

"Perhaps once that was true," she wiped her eyes. "But I have cursed him. Every man I have married died. Now I fear I have been his death, too."

"No," he countered, "he has not been slain. They have done nothing to him. Look at your children, my Queen. They have faith in him. You know how strong he is. All will be well."

She shook her head.

"Why do you have so little faith in him? You have seen what he can do. Why are you so willing to believe him dead?"

"I told you. I am cursed!"

"No, Madame. You are blessed. You have children who love you, a kingdom at your feet, a husband who cares for you. There are few who are so blessed. And when the King returns you will see how blessed you are."

"Why are you so sure he will return? Why do you hold out hope?"

He sighed. "I have known His Majesty for many years, Madame, more years than you can possibly imagine. And in that time I have never seen the man or elf who could best him. Not in spell craft, certainly, and not in combat. It will take more than a few Cardolani warriors to defeat him, even though they were unfortunate enough to capture him. If they are wise, they will treat him well. If they are not, then you know as well as I that His Majesty abhors being restrained."

"That is true enough."

"You should try to sleep, Madame. Tomorrow will be long, and you will need your strength."

"I will try."

 

 

She lay abed for hours, but sleep, when it came, was full of nightmares. She could see him after being tortured, his broken body dragged mercilessly across the stones, trailing blood. They would chain him over a pit of flaming coals to be roasted alive. Or they would feed him to the bears, after beating him senseless and leaving him hanging helplessly in shackles. There was no scenario too horrific, no torment too gruesome, to be played out in her mind.

Unable to sleep, she went to her children. They were asleep, all of them, the fur blanket she had brought from her own bed draped loosely over them. They had no trouble sleeping; their confidence in their father was supreme. How she longed for such conviction!

Perhaps, if she stayed here, some of it would come to her. She pulled part of the blanket over herself, and lay down with her children.

 

 

 

Morning found the Hillfolk's town transformed into a fortress. Adzuphel declared Martial Law, requiring all the Hillfolk to stay inside unless escorted by an Angmarim soldier. Wolves freely trotted around, helping keep the civilians contained. Most of the larger buildings had been seized, and were now filled with troops, both human and orc. Some of the encampments spilled out onto the fields. Interspersed between the red and black tents were the orcish tribal insignia Ariashal knew from Carn Dum, plus some new ones: black stars on yellow, white arrows on red, blue hands on white, and many more. Carn Dum and Angmar banners swirled lazily above the tent city.

As yet no word had come from the Cardolani, a fact which puzzled Adzuphel. By now he should have received some sort of note, a ransom demand, perhaps, or at least a declaration that they had indeed taken the King. The lack of such correspondence had the men of Angmar baffled. Perhaps it was not the Cardolani who had seized him; perhaps it was some treachery here in the town. Or it might be the workings of Rhudaur.

Ariashal kept the children inside, lest anyone try to steal them too. And though she would not admit it, she also did not want them outside when word of their father's fate reached the town. They did not need to be among the first to hear of his demise.

All day long scouts, both human and lupine, reported back to Adzuphel. They could find no trace of the King, although they knew he had been taken to a small tower, several leagues away. Ariashal could not recall such a tower from her time here; it must be a new construct, built, probably, with Angmar's gold. Her brothers' treachery grew by the hour.

She finally asked Adzuphel why, if they were sure of the King's whereabouts, they did not try to free him.

Adzuphel sighed. He looked dreadful; he had not changed from the armor he had worn during last night's attack, nor had he gotten any rest. He had managed to wash the dried blood and muck from his face, but that was all he had been able to do. When she approached him with her query, he was too tired to be gentle.

"If we make an open move, they will try to kill him. I have dealt with the people of Rhudaur and Cardolan before, and I know that you spoke the truth when you said they would use whatever means they could to break him. But they cannot break him. If they try to harm him, they will be slaughtered like beasts. And if they do harm him, they will not rest, even in death. He will destroy them all."

From the look in his eye she knew that it would be useless to question him further.


	17. A Message of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

The sun was dropping low in the sky when the wolves began to howl.

"Mamma, wake up!" Zimraphel bounded onto the bed. "Papa is coming! "

Startled, Ariashal sat up. She had not even intended to sleep; she was just going to rest a little. She must have been out for hours. "What do you mean?"

"Listen! Wolf says he is coming!"

She staggered from the bed. Adzuphel and the others were no longer in the room; they too must have heard. "Where are your brothers?"

"Outside. I want you to come and see!"

Obediently she followed her daughter outside, into the deepening twilight. Adzuphel met her near the door.

"We have received word from the King. He is returning here."

"Is he all right?" She managed to keep her voice low.

"I do not know," Adzuphel admitted. "He says that he does not want the children to see him until tomorrow."

"I understand. They will have to be moved, perhaps into your rooms."

"That would probably be best," he agreed. "And he wants the entire town assembled in front of the gates."

"Why?"

"I do not know. I would imagine he wants to show that he is well and still in command."

"Very well." She knew how much he despised any weaknesses of his own. If he were at all able to move, he would do so.

 

 

She supervised the removal of the children to Adzuphel's rooms, much to their dismay. They wanted to see their father, and while she was tempted to give in to them, she knew full well that he must have something he wished hidden from them. So she insisted that they be put to bed early, and that their nurse stand close guard.

Guessing that he would want some sort of cleansing after what he had been through, she ordered the servants to prepare a bath for him. There was little they could do; the Hillfolk were not accustomed to such niceties. Still, they were able to procure a large tub, which she had them clean and then fill with hot water. She had no sooner finished managing the bathing arrangements when a trumpet blast echoed across the hills.

Ariashal joined Adzuphel by the gate. The palisade gates were wide open, fires blazing before them. All of the Angmarim troops were lined up on the right of the gate, orcs and men alike. She could not count how many there were. The townsfolk were gathered to the left, a nervous mob that shifted uneasily in the fading light. Wolves trotted around the field.  
  
Another trumpet blast, and Ariashal could make out the approaching crowd. Troops marched along, banners and flags of Angmar held high as they led the way. Drummers pounded a steady beat as they drew near. She counted nine rows of men, three abreast.

Behind them, on a massive pale palomino horse, rode the King. She could see that he still had his black robes, still had his great sword at his side. Her heart leapt as she saw him. He was well, he had survived, he was back and safe and hers.

Then she saw the next wave of troops shuffle forward.

They moved like no men she had ever seen, nor like any orc: stiff heads lolling, staggering as they came. There was something wrong about them; they seemed to be walking in their sleep. Perhaps they were prisoners.

The King rode to the city gate. Reining in the horse, he held up one hand for silence.

"Know ye all," he began, "that from this day hence this land and all that surrounds it belongs to Angmar. You will answer now to Carn Dum."

A low murmur spread through the crowd.

He held up his hand, and again they quieted. He spoke a few words in a strange, guttural tongue, and the shambling troops came forward.

"Look ye here at what I have made of my enemies," he continued. "They will walk to Cardolan, and Rhudaur, and wherever else they called home. And they will spread the word that I will not tolerate any attack on my person. For who better to be my messenger, than those whom I have already slain?"

Horrified, Ariashal took a longer look at the men. She saw, now, that what she had taken for sleepiness was instead the slow march of the undead. The dead men clumsily turned, shuffling back out into the darkness.

"Go now," he said, "and mark well this night." He spurred the horse forward and rode through the gates.

 

  
Adzuphel propelled Ariashal after the King. They followed him as he rode to the long house, half running in their attempt to keep up. Ariashal could not imagine what must have happened to him. What had they done that drove him to raise an army of the dead?

They managed to reach him at the door of the long house. To her surprise he had not dismounted; he waited until they had arrived. Adzuphel caught the bridle while the King slowly eased his way down.

She saw how stiffly he moved, how carefully he put his weight on each foot. Obviously he was hurt, despite his valiant attempt to hide any injury. She let him enter the building first, alone, before following with Adzuphel.

He was standing in the middle of the room, swaying slightly with each breath. "Adzuphel, what news is there?"

"Your Majesty," began Adzuphel, "we are all grateful that you have returned safely. There is nothing so urgent that it cannot wait until tomorrow. Please, let your queen tend to you."

For a moment he was quiet. "Very well," he said at last.

Adzuphel bowed and slipped out.

"Let me undress you, my Lord." Ariashal began to undo his sword belt. "Look. I have had a hot bath made ready. Let me help you bathe."

He offered no resistance as she pulled off his clothes. To her shock she found his shirt slashed and bloodstained; his breeches, too, were heavy with dried blood. "What have they done to you?"

"Nothing."

She managed to hold her tongue while tending to him. Watching the way the water flowed over what was apparently an empty space never failed to fascinate her. She could not make him out beneath the liquid, nor almost see the body she had known for so long; instead she saw a strange refraction where his flesh met the water. While caring for him she discovered all the places he hurt: areas that were exceptionally warm to the touch, stiff muscles, welts and ridges that seemed to be cuts. Every now and then he flinched when she found a particularly tender spot. Whether most of his injuries came from the fall with his horse, or from the treatments of the Cardolani, she could not tell.

She spent the rest of the night sitting up next to him while he slept. Every now and then she checked on the guards posted outside. They were alert, more alert than she had ever seen them. Bonfires blazed throughout the little city, at the gates, near many a house, by the sprawling army encampment. Satisfied that they were well guarded, she returned to his side.

Watching the steady rise and fall of the blankets, she wondered what had happened in the tower. Obviously they had mistreated him in some manner, else he would not have slain the entire company.

The appearance of the undead had unnerved her. She knew he could do such a thing; she had heard him speak about it. But never before had she actually seen anything like that shambling army of dead men. It was beyond strange, disturbing, frightening.

And yet she could not help but admire him for creating them, for taking his tormentors and turning them against their own kind. If anything, they deserved that, and worse. They had captured him, probably tortured him; the blood on his clothes was evidence of that. Had she been there, she would have torn them apart with her hands for daring to hurt him.

What if more of the Cardolani came here, seeking revenge? The King was too hurt to fight, though she knew he would battle on until the end. Would she be able to drive them off? She was suddenly grateful for the fires that blazed outside, and for the men standing guard at the door; for the orcs that patrolled the night, and the wolves that ran beside them.

How greatly her life had changed! When she was young, a wolf was a ravening horror, a murderous beast that would slay her if she ventured too far afield. Orcs were also nocturnal terrors, swarming over field and farm, destroying all in their path.

Now she saw the wolves as guardians; silent helpers that slipped through the forests, scouting for enemies. Their howls were signals, calls for help, warnings, even news. No longer did she tremble when she heard them. She envied Zimraphel, who could listen to them, and understand.

Her opinion of Orcs had not changed overmuch. They were still savage, wild creatures who left behind nothing but the wreckage of their passage. But they fought for her King, bravely and sometimes desperately. She had seen them in the arena, staging their mock battles for the amusement of the crowd. They never seemed to flinch, nor run, no matter how badly wounded. She knew the King was pleased with their progress, and that pleased her as well.

As gently as she could she adjusted the blankets over him. Not once did he stir. Good. He could not hear her now. "I love you," she whispered.


	18. The Captive King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

  
By morning all of his injuries had healed, from the little cuts and welts to the much more serious gashes. Ariashal had never heard of anyone recovering so quickly, and concluded it must be some sort of healing spell. Once he was awake she asked him, carefully, about his ordeal.

"Twas not as terrible for me as they would have wished," he began. "For me, the worst part by far was when they slew my horse. I had pursued them from the town, then chased them partway down the hill. When he collapsed beneath me, I fell hard onto the rock and he rolled over me.

"The next thing that I knew, I was in their tower. They had gagged me, tied a cowl over my head, and chained me to the wall. But they could not prevent my listening, and I stayed as still as I could that I might learn what they had planned for me.

"That was when your brother's name was first mentioned."

Her heart skipped a beat. "My--my brother? Ferion? What has he to do with this?"

"It seems that he is trying to form some sort of alliance with at least part of the Cardolani Dunedain. He wants to use this alliance to wrest power from me. They had not expected to capture me so early, however. They were planning on doing that when we reached Rhudaur proper. Instead they were forced to decide what to do with me now, without your brother's instructions. After a long discussion they finally decided that they would question me. So they threw water on me, to wake me; and they began to interrogate me. When I did not deign to answer their foolish questions, they began to threaten me with whips and torture. I have endured far worse than anything they could possibly do, and so I continued to ignore them.

"Finally one of them decided that it was time to begin questioning me in earnest. He tore open my shirt, and when he did so the fool was shocked to find me invisible. They worried about what this meant, and one of them went to fetch the Cardolani princes.

"By now I had begun to formulate the spell I would use to destroy them, and it was only a matter of time before it would be ready. I wanted them close to me, so that the effect would be instantaneous. I knew that the princes would come, and that they would be the first to fall.

"When they returned, they brought with them a whip tipped with iron spurs. They probably believed that the iron would break whatever spells I might have cast upon myself. One of the princes began to insult me, hoping that his puerile attempts would anger me. He came forward, whip in hand, and lashed me."

"No!" she cried.

"It did me no harm. But the whip itself shattered, as if it were glass; and his wrist shattered with it. He collapsed, screaming. The others, frightened, decided to rush me with whatever weapons they had to hand. I had my spell ready, and when they were close enough, I spoke the words. They fell dead at my feet.

"It took me a little effort to break the shackles, but they were soon gone. I collected my weapons and everything else they had taken from me, and began to work my way through the tower. I left no one alive, no slave, no servant, no one. When I was done I decided that simply leaving them there would not be enough. I wanted to impress upon all that I am not to be trifled with. And so I commanded them to rise, and follow me.  
  
"The only horse worthy of the name was the pale beast that carried me back here. When I rode out of the gate, I was relieved to see that my troops were waiting, for I had no idea where I was, and no way of knowing how to return. The rest you know."

Without warning, she seized him in a hug, burying her head against his chest. "I am sorry," she whispered between her tears.

"Why do you weep?" He managed to extricate himself from her desperate grasp. "I told you that they did me no harm."

"But they tried!"

"Aye, madame, they can try all they wish. No living man can harm me."

"But why would my brother do this?"

"I assure you, I will find out. It may be time to relieve him of the burden of kingship. It is certainly time to appoint a garrison to that tower. Tis a fine enough tower, and the people who live here will go and build it even stronger. This miserable village will be given to some of the orcs."

 

 

That evening the villagers gathered to hear their new King decree their fate. They were stunned to learn that they would be moving away, and would be building a new town. They were even more shocked to learn that they would be moving within the week, with a few left behind to tend the crops. Ariashal's former nephew accepted his reduced role with more grace than she expected from him; but he too had seen the army of the dead, and was probably relieved that he had gotten off so easily. Troops and orcs were left behind to supervise the transition of the village, and the court rode off to Rhudaur.

 

 

They rode with more Angmarim troops now, while wolves swiftly covered the ground, searching for traps and spies. Ariashal wanted to keep the children from riding about the camp with their father after dark, but the King insisted that they show no fear to their enemy. She waited in her wagon, heart in her throat, until they completed their rounds.

Now that they were in Rhudaur proper, the orcs garrisoned in southern Angmar came to join them. Sensitive to sunlight, the orcs only traveled at night, usually reaching the court's camp some time before midnight. Drums would announce their arrival. There would be hailing and noise as they moved in, and the King would wait for a report from the orcish captains. For Ariashal the arrival of the orcs was something of a mixed blessing; she was grateful for the extra protection they offered, but worried that they might attack innocent civilians. The King assured her that his orcish troops, while undisciplined in many ways, would attack no target without permission, even here in Rhudaur.  
  
Soon after they crossed the border they were joined by Herumor. He too arrived during the night, riding one of the flying beasts. Its presence worried the King, who feared that the Dunedain, or worse, the Elves, might see it. After some discussion Herumor turned it loose. It shook its head, broke into a hopping run, and took to the air.

"He has borne me many a long mile." Herumor watched him disappear into the night. "I wish to have him return."

"He will come when summoned," reassured the King.

"Pray that we have no need for that," said Herumor.

"Why would you need the beast?" asked Ariashal.

"If things do not go smoothly, I may have to send for reinforcements," explained the King. "Travel is much faster by air than by land. But I do not think your brother will be difficult. Without his Cardolani friends, he is likely to be easily subdued."


	19. Into the Tombs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

  
After several long days they finally crested the hill that overlooked her family home.

She recognized many of the old landmarks, the rocky outcrops that had reminded her of animals when she was a child, and the streams she had splashed across in summer. But her homecoming filled her with dread instead of joy. She could not imagine why her brother wished to destroy her husband; even Ferion must know he could not rule all of Angmar and Rhudaur combined. He had never been a particularly gifted young man; she had heard her father call him "stubborn" and "foolish" more than once. But he had endured, and now they must deal with him.

Ferion had reinforced the old walls, adding some new ones to enclose more fields. She found the additional fortifications disturbing. Even more disquieting was the large number of troops assembled near the old keep, their armor glittering in the sun.

The King sent a herald out to meet with the Rhudaurians. Ariashal knew that the King was unhappy with the display of strength presented by her brother; she knew he would counter with one of his own, both today and later tonight when the orcs arrived. If only she could talk to Ferion, and try to bring home to him that he was being foolish in the extreme! But she knew that he would not listen, and in any event the King would not let her ride alone into his camp.

After a few tense moments their herald returned, along with one from Rhudaur.

"My king Ferion welcomes you to his home," said the Rhudaurian herald. "He awaits anon."

 

  
The royal family made their way into the Rhudaurian castle with more pomp than had been seen here in many years. First in were the trumpets, followed by drummers. The banner carriers came next, swirling the red and black flags of Angmar and Carn Dum. There were rows of troops, though not the whole of the army; the King selected a few from each company to enter with him. There were more trumpets, the household guards, and then the King rode in. He rode alone, on the pale palomino stallion, the horse draped with the magnificent red, black and gold trappings used for state occasions. The horse was unused to such ceremony, snorting and prancing as the trumpets blared and drums thundered. Yet the King kept him under control, forcing the stallion, like so many other things, to bend to his will.  
  
Behind him Ariashal rode in her little wagon, the children by her side. Adzuphel and the rest of the King's men did not accompany them; they were busily arranging the layout of the camp. Following her were more troops, and one last band of drummers. The people who lived in and around the castle were awestruck by the spectacle that paraded before them. And truth to tell, Ariashal could not ever recall witnessing an entry to the castle as grand as this.

Once inside the walls, they made their way to the old keep. It had recently been reinforced, erasing some of the familiar features which Ariashal recalled from her residence here. She was surprised to see that her brother was not outside to greet them. Such a serious breach of etiquette would not impress the King favorably.

They dismounted at a new door, heavily reinforced with iron. The local guards quickly cleared the way for them. The interior of the castle was in poorer condition than Ariashal remembered: tapestries, worn and dirty, hung against the walls; aging carpets covered the floors. Most of the furniture was heavy, and showed considerable use. She did not recall it looking quite so shabby when she lived here. The children were disturbed by the rundown condition of the place, and she found herself silently agreeing with them. Carn Dum this was not.

Her brother awaited them in the hall where she had signed her marriage contract on that long-ago spring day. He was sitting on their father's throne, surrounded by his guards and members of his court. Every man was dressed in depressingly gray tunics, with little ornamentation. Even Ferion wore a simple brown and gray tunic, although he at least wore the crown of Rhudaur. Ariashal searched in vain for a recognizable face, someone she knew from long ago. There was no one. Even Ferion was a stranger now: his face was weathered and hard, beard and hair streaked with gray. She felt a slight tinge of pride that her hair was still dark and her face unlined. She had not aged as badly as her brother.

The King had insisted on being accompanied by his household guards, and in their red and black tabards they made a sharp contrast to the scruffier Rhudaurians. She could not help but notice that no one here wore anything even as remotely elegant as her gowns; the women were in their best, which was little more than plain cloth trimmed with fur. Had it always been this way, she wondered, or had the constant wars with Cardolan finally brought them to this low?

Ferion stood to greet them. "Welcome to my home."

"The King of Rhudaur is most gracious."

"We will see to your comfort while you are with us." Ferion's smile was cold. "It pleases me to again have my fair sister at my court."

"It is good to see you, my brother." She hoped she sounded sincere.

"We have prepared chambers for you while you stay with us. I trust that you will find them adequate. Your men may camp on our fields. There are many things which we must discuss, but first you will no doubt wish to rest after your long journey."

"The King of Rhudaur is most kind."

"My men will lead you to your rooms." Ferion smiled again, his face crinkling. "And now, if I may, I would beg a boon of Angmar."

"Say your piece."

"I would very much like to take my sister to the tomb of our father."

"If she so desires, she may accompany you."

"Good. Will you come with me, my sister?"

Ariashal drew a deep breath. "I would like to see his tomb."

"Very well." Ferion stepped from his throne. "Come with me now, and see where our father was laid to rest."

Gingerly she took his hand and followed him from the hall. She longed to look back at her husband, but etiquette forbade it. Instead she fixed her eyes on the guards' backs as they headed for the tomb.

 

 

They made their way through the halls of the old castle. She saw that some of the walls had been recently rebuilt; the new stone did not match the old. Extra battlements had been added, as well as a new tower and reinforcing partition walls. Many guards and soldiers milled around the larger rooms, some idly playing at dice, others lounging about on the old furniture. Ferion explained their presence by saying only that he wanted to be well-prepared, for his enemies had grown strong.

He led her out into a sheltered garden, a place where they had played as children. Ariashal had loved the garden as a girl; there were many plants trimmed into the shape of animals here, and a meandering paved path wound among the trees. The garden was now overgrown, the topiari animals neglected; weeds outnumbered flowers in the beds. Overhead the trees grew so close together that they made a living canopy. Little sunlight reached the red-paved pathways.

They crossed the garden, coming to a gate set in the wall. On the other side was a long, narrow passageway, open on one side to a brackish pond. At the end of the passageway was a door, guarded by a pair of soldiers. They saluted as Ferion drew close. One produced a key and unlocked the door. Ferion opened this door and ushered Ariashal inside.

Shafts of light filtered through clerestory windows, landing here and there on the occupants of the tombs. She knew that the corpses were in here; she had been here herself many times, when her brothers and nephews were laid to rest. But it was unsettling to walk here again, to see her mother's body laid on its cold stone bed, to see the still, small children and the rotted old men. Ferion led her to one side, where the most recent burials had taken place. She recognized the woman Ferion had married, dead now for a dozen years, her dark hair still bundled into tight braids. And she recognized the stern face of her father, his beard full and gray.

"I have seen enough," she said after a few moments. "He is at rest now. I would like to return to my husband."

"Your husband." Ferion laughed, a little; an ugly sound among the dead.

"Yes, my husband."

"Your husband." Ferion stalked towards her. "Do you know what your husband is?"

"He is King of Angmar," she said, annoyed.

"Ohh, no, he is far more than that!" Ferion shot her a malicious grin. "Father told me all about him, just before he died."

"What are you talking about? I knew he was a sorcerer when I married him!"

"A sorcerer! Is that all you think he is? He is a Nazgul!"

"A what?"

"A Nazgul. A ringwraith."

"I know what the word means! They were in the stories Nanna told when we were little."

"Oh, yes, they were. And he--your husband-- is their leader!"

Now she was angry. "Do not be ridiculous. They were destroyed when Sauron fell. He is a powerful sorcerer, and a great warrior, and nothing more."

"How stupid you are!" He laughed again, and she felt a sudden chill. "Father learned who he was just before agreeing to marry you off to him. He hoped that your curse would actually work to his advantage this time. He hoped that you would manage to kill the Nazgul, and we could claim all his lands for ourselves."

" _What_?" Ariashal stared at him, furious. "Do you mean to tell me that I was married off so that my husband would die?"

"Everyone else you married died! We had no reason to believe this would be any different. But he is much more resilient than we expected. He should have been dead many times over by now. Somehow your curse has not worked on him."

"There is no curse!"

"You know you do not believe that."

She managed to hold his gaze. "He is no Nazgul."

"And how do you explain that army of the dead he sent through here?"

"They attacked him. They got what they deserved."

"Do you not see? What normal man would do that?"

"He is normal! He does not breathe fire when he speaks. I have never frozen at his touch. He has not slain me with his breath."

"Normal! Normal men do not speak with wolves and orcs."

"Normal men do not send their daughters off to slay their husbands!"

"Listen, fool," hissed Ferion, grabbing at her. "He cannot be killed by any man. You are no man. You can kill him!"

She pulled away from him. "You are mad! You cannot stand to see me happy, so you have concocted these lies. I will leave you now, and I will not come near you again!"

"Have you ever seen his face?"

Ariashal kept her back to him.

"You have not, have you? And his friends. There are eight, are there not? You have never seen their faces, either."

"What of it?"

"You cannot see the Nazgul."

"That means nothing. He has other friends whose faces I know well."

"He wears a ring that he never removes."

"So do many men." She headed for the door.

"But many men have names that can be spoken."

Once again she stopped. "What makes you believe this nonsense?"

"A gentleman in black came to see our father long ago," he began. "He told him that if we allied ourselves with Angmar, many good things would come our way. He came from Dol Guldur, where the Nazgul live."

She laughed now, louder than was necessary. "Dol Guldur? That there are Nazgul living there makes you believe that I have married their leader?"

"He told father that their leader lived at Carn Dum. Father came up with the plan of having you work your curse upon him."

"Who else has heard this nonsense?"

"No one. Just you, father, and I. It is too dangerous to speak of it openly!"

"Of course it is. They would take you for a madman, and you would spend the rest of your days locked away in chains!"

"Do not mock me, Ariashal! You have allied yourself with the most evil thing in all Middle- Earth. When you slay him, you will strike a blow for all the free people!"

"Free? How are they free? With you as their king, they will not be free. And who is more evil, the man I married or the man who would have me kill him?"

"You have fallen to his spells!" Ferion made a quick move, as though he wanted to seize her; but she managed to pull away. "You see? You are as evil as he!"

"I? I am evil? You would have me slay my husband, the father of my children, and I am evil?" Furious, she stalked out of the tomb, slamming the door behind her.


	20. Wraith Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

  
She managed to find the rooms assigned to them, despite the new construction. They were where she expected them to be; they were, in fact, her mother's old quarters, below the ones now occupied by Ferion. Obviously no one had stayed here for years; the rooms were dark, musty, and run-down. Stained, moth-eaten tapestries lined the walls; threadbare carpets covered the old stone floor. The fire burning on the hearth did little to warm the air or dispel the gloom. Even with the windows open, the rooms felt close, confining.  
  
The children were unhappy about the beds provided for them; they complained of the musty smell, the old blankets, the rickety wooden frames. They could not have their wolves in here for company, as Ferion expressly forbade it. Imrahil and Adrahil longed to camp with the soldiers. Zimraphel sat, alone, by the window, staring out at the sky. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.

"The wolves say this place is bad," said Zimraphel.  
  
"The wolves are very wise." Ariashal sat next to her. "Where is your father?"

"He went to speak with the troops," explained Imrahil. "He said we had to wait for you in here before we could go anywhere."

"Orcs and trolls live in better places than this!" Adrahil kicked at one of the old wooden beds.

"Stop that!" snapped Ariashal. "My mother lived here, and so did I, when I was little. You will not insult this place again."

"I want to stay in a tent," continued Adrahil. "Please? I hate it here. It smells."

"If you get to go, I do too!" Imrahil shoved his rother. "Zimraphel is right. This place is bad."

"I doubt that your father will permit you to stay out with the rmy," reasoned Ariashal. "And it will be much warmer in here."

"The wolves say bad things are going to happen here." Zimraphel clung to her mother. "I want to go home!"

"Now, listen, all of you." Ariashal tried to sound firm. "You will be staying in these rooms. Your father and I will be here. Your nurse will be here. There are guards outside the doors. We will all be safe. Now, if you want, you may go with the guards to the gardens while I wait for your father."

Relieved to be free of the oppressive room, they raced out the door.

 

The King arrived earlier than she expected. He came with almost a dozen of his finest guards, all armed with swords and spears. They set to work searching the rooms as soon as they arrived. When they had lifted every bed, moved every tapestry and checked every chest, they withdrew to watch the outer doors.

She was glad to be alone with him again. "I sent the children out to play in the gardens," she began. "They were restless."

"I do not think that is a good idea. Even with my guards I do not think they will be safe."

"What do you mean?"

He stalked around the room, checking the tapestries again. "Your brother has some sort of trap planned. I have not lived this long without learning how to smell one. It might be best if the children stayed with the army, where Adzuphel and Herumor can protect them."

"Do you really think it is that dangerous? Perhaps we too should go."

"No. If he is laying a trap, I want him to spring it on me. We will stay here. The children, though, will leave." He prodded one of the beds. "Ferion has not wasted any of my money on furnishings, I see. No, I have decided. I will take the children out to review the troops, and they will stay there."

"And if my brother asks why?"

"He will not dare."

Ariashal knew Ferion better than that. "I think he will want to know why we are spurning his hospitality."

He drew a long breath. "If he brings himself to ask, then I will tell him that these rooms are unsuitable for my children. That will suffice."

"It should. And the children will be well pleased to stay in the field." She opened one of her traveling boxes. "Would you care for some brandy?"

"No, I think not." He settled into one of the old chairs. It creaked beneath his weight, but held firm. "I want to be alert for any trouble."

"Do you really think he will do something?"

"He is in league with Cardolan. That alone makes him suspect."

Ariashal closed the box. "Is there anything I can bring my lord?"

He stretched out his legs, careful not to stress the chair. "Only yourself."

She crossed to him, gently laid a hand on his arm. "Ferion said the most ridiculous thing today. He said that you are a Nazgul, and that I should kill you."

"What?"

"That was what I said, but he insisted. He said my father told him, just before he died."

"Your father? What would make him say that?"

"Ferion said that a man from Dol Guldur came, and spoke to my father about an alliance with Angmar. And Ferion says that the Nazgul reside in Dol Guldur."

"Does he, now. Well, I would not put too much store in the words of anyone from Dol Guldur."

"He told me that the only reason they wanted me to marry you was to work my curse upon you. Now he says I must slay you to free Middle-Earth."

The King laughed. "So, now I hold all Middle-Earth in thrall? Am I to fear my wife? Are you the trap he has set?"

"Do not think that!" She tried not to sound panicked. "I would never harm you! I--"

"Ariashal," he cut her off with a laugh. "You need say no more. I have proof enough of your feelings. I trust you would not harm me."

She laid her head on his shoulder. "He did ask me many things about you. I told him that I have never seen you, and he said that was proof enough."

"I see." The King took her hand. "Well. You have felt every part of me. Am I a ghost?"

For the first time all day she managed a smile. "No, my lord."

"If I take off these clothes, do I dissolve into shapelessness?"

She laughed. "No."

He slipped his hands around her waist, drawing her close. "Do I poison you with my breath?"

"No."

"Freeze you with my touch?"

She kissed him. "No."

"Do you find me a mindless slave and puppet?"

"No." She let this kiss linger.

He pulled her hands down to his lap. "Does this feel wraithlike?"

"No, my lord." Ariashal opened the front of his robes and knelt before him.

"Perhaps," he murmured, stroking her hair, "you should make certain."  



	21. The Long Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

Before the evening meal, Ariashal accompanied the King as he took the children out for the daily review of their troops. When they had finished, he led them over to the big red and black tent used by Adzuphel and Herumor. Here the children were left for the night, which delighted the boys immensely; Zimraphel was much more interested in the wolves than in her accommodations. Before leaving for the keep, both Ariashal and the King gave strict orders that they were to eat their supper, obey Adzuphel and Herumor, and that they were to keep the wolves close. Seeing the wolves settling in next to the children calmed Ariashal, for they could be counted on for protection.

At supper Ferion did not ask about the children's whereabouts, which struck Ariashal as a little odd. Very few members of his court were in attendance, and those that were remained silent. The evening's entertainment was sparse, a handful of slightly out-of-tune musicians playing some old songs that had probably best been forgotten. Even the food was lacking. Ariashal remembered the feasts her father gave, where great roasts and joints covered the tables, while bowls of steaming vegetables and soups were always kept full. Now there was only a dispirited slab of meat on their plates, with some bland soup and dry bread. The King ate little, and she knew that this time it was not because of his mask.

Ferion announced his desire to retire at the end of the meal, and Ariashal was only too glad to see him go. She returned with the King to their quarters, which he again inspected closely. He ordered the bedding stripped and the hangings taken down. Their own servants brought in blankets and bedding from the camp. The old bedding was taken out to the camp and burned, where any poisons spread on the fabric would be destroyed. He had some of his guards stand in the room with them, a precaution she had never seen him take before. She was glad of their little interlude that afternoon; there was no way she could possibly be seduced with an audience in the room. They left only while her women undressed her for the night. As soon as she lay down, the guards returned.

The King would not sleep. He felt it best if one of them stayed awake, in case there were any disturbances. She conceded the point, and gave up trying to persuade him to join her on the bed. He wished to remain alert: so be it. She knew well enough how little rest he needed. She drew the hangings closed and waited for sleep.

But deep sleep eluded her. Periodically she would hear the King moving about the room, restlessly checking for some sign of intruders. The guards, too, were uneasy. Several times during the night they came by, giving the King a report on activity in the camp. She tried to sleep through it, but the King's suspicions had invaded her dreams. Several times she awoke from disturbing nightmares.

After one particularly ghastly dream, where she saw her husband tortured and disemboweled while her children were sold into slavery, she gave up. She would have some brandy to steady her nerves, and if it helped ease her to sleep, all the better.

Her traveling box was on one of the tables. Not wanting to disturb either the King or the guards, she slipped from the bed to fetch the brandy herself. She could hear the wolves howling outside, their wailing cries coming from every direction. Ariashal remembered how much they had frightened her when she first entered Angmar. The thought that their howls might frighten Ferion and disturb his sleep cheered her.

She poured some of the brandy into a silver goblet and slowly began sipping. It warmed her, more than either the low fire or the furred robes. She carefully sat on one of the rickety chairs and continued nursing her brandy, relaxing in the warmth.

The King was near the door, speaking quietly with one of the guards. While she had slept he had changed from the ceremonial robes of the entrance parade to more serviceable plain robes. He had on both his great sword and his shorter one, and she could make out the bulge of a mace head beneath his cloak. She wondered if he had even donned armor while she slept.

She caught a few bits of the guard's conversation; she strained to hear more. "No sign of any activity anywhere, Sire. The orcs have settled next to the Rhudaurians."

"Good. And the children?" asked the King.

"They are asleep. Herumor watches them."

"Keep the watch close to them," warned the King, "for I expect that they will be his targets." The guard saluted and left.

He knew she was awake. Without turning from the door, he said, "Why do you not rest?"

Ariashal put down the brandy. "I could not."

"It would be best for you if you could." He came to her side. "There is nothing you can do tonight."

"Why, then, do you not rest, my lord?"

He sighed. She recognized weariness in him; she reached for him, to gather him close. "No, my queen. I dare not."

"But Herumor and the others are awake. Let them guard for a while."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because," he began, "your brother is a coward. He will try to strike at me through my family."

"Ferion may be a coward, but I am sure that he is sleeping now."

"But his agents are not, madame."

"You cannot go without rest for days on end. Here. Have some of this brandy."

He slowly shook his head. "You do not understand. It has been a very long time since I have had children of my own. I will not see them destroyed by a worthless Dunedain princeling."

Something he said struck her, hard. "You--you have had other children? When?"

"Oh, it was long ago, and far away. Long before I decided to make a kingdom in Angmar."

Earlier attempts to elicit anything about his past had always been abruptly terminated; he had completely refused to speak of it. But tonight, she sensed, was different. "Where did you live before?"

"I have lived in many places, my queen. Most were south and east of here. One was west. I have seen my sons grow to be kings and generals, my daughters queens. And I have seen them slain by my enemies, who could find no better way to strike at me."

"They--they were all killed?"

"Nay, not all. My first son grew to be a king, strong enough to hold his throne and live. One or two others survived, and prospered. But most of the others fell to the hatred of my enemies."

She felt a sudden chill, which even the brandy could not dispel. "I--I am sorry, my lord. I did not know."

"I did not want you to know."

"I do not want such a thing to happen to our children."

"That is why they wait in the camp. Your brother is clumsy, and has already shown his hand. Tomorrow I will learn from him which of the Cardolani are with him, and then I will eliminate the threat."

"So Ferion will die."

"Perhaps. If so, twas his choice to make. He chose this path. I did not choose it for him."

She put aside the brandy. "And the Cardolani?"

"They will follow him. I had hoped that the fools in the tower were the only ones treating with Ferion, but I fear that is not the case. I will discover the names of everyone he has embroiled in this cabal. I can only hope that he has not yet involved the Elves at Imladris."

"Imladris?" she asked, puzzled. "Why would the Elves become part of his scheme?"

For several moments he was quiet. Finally he spoke, and when he did his voice was soft, almost inaudible. "Long ago, I fought against the Elves. Not once, but many times. They have no love for me. If they knew I had established a kingdom in Angmar, they would unleash all the fury they could muster to drive me out."

"But if, as you say, it was long ago, perhaps they will have forgotten about revenge."

"No, my queen." His sighed. "The firstborn are arrogant, immortal creatures. They have no love for men and they harbor nothing but ill-will and hatred for me. Elves have no reason to forget any wrong, and every reason to cling to a desire for vengeance. Long ago they quarreled with the dwarves, and now the two races are forever estranged. They fought me, and what they would inflict upon my children is too terrible to contemplate.

"And so, tomorrow, I will do all I can to learn his plans, and use whatever means I must to stop him."

She went to him, managed to slip into his arms. "My lord," she whispered, "I pray that you are not too late."

He quietly gathered her close. "So do I."

As he held her tight against him, his great cloak swallowing both of them, she knew.

Ferion had not lied about him.

Whether it was the sheer strength of his arms, or the fact that he had seen so many of his children slain, or the ring digging into her back, she could not tell. All the horror stories she had heard as a child, all the threats and terrors, everything she had ever learned about the men known as Nazgul, tumbled together in her mind. She understood, now, about the Black Robes, about the magic that kept her safe at Carn Dum. She knew why he commanded the orcs, and why he rode the beast Nardu.

And yet--and yet--

Never once had he raised a hand to her, or to their children. Never had he threatened to send her away, or to destroy their children. He had not married her off in hopes of her slaying her husband for his land. He had not traded her around to whomever would have her to get a brief advantage in these miserable hills. He would not send their daughter into the life she herself had left. Always he had protected her, sheltered her, succored her.

She knew, now, why he had kept his past hidden from her, why he never removed the ring, why she would never know his name or even his face.

And she knew that it did not matter. She would keep his secret.  
  
She loved him.  



	22. The Mithril Shirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

In the morning the royal couple made their way out to the camp to check on the children. The long night had taken its toll on Ariashal, and she knew that the King was similarly indisposed. Still, she insisted on seeing the children as early as possible, and he agreed. For despite reports of peace and quiet, neither of them were satisfied until they had actually spoken with their progeny.

Adzuphel met them at the entrance to the royal tent. "They slept well, your Majesties. My lord Herumor cast a few spells last night, which I believe helped them to rest. And the wolves stayed with them, as you commanded."

"That is good," said the King. "Have they eaten?"

"With the rest of the troops," explained Adzuphel. "They wanted to eat what the soldiers ate, and so we obliged them."

"It is good for the troops to see that their commanders will share their burdens," agreed the King. "Where are they now?"

"Within. They should be almost ready to receive your Majesties."

Ariashal quickly inspected the tent, looking for any signs of tears or cuts. "Nothing came by last night?"

"No, madame, nothing at all. It was quiet, and the presence of the wolves kept order."

"I see that the orcs are next to the Rhudaurian forces."

"Yes. When they arrived, Herumor directed them to establish their camp over there. The Rhudaurians did not dare complain. I think that they believed Herumor to be Your Majesty."

"That will be a useful ruse," agreed the King. "They must not be aware of Herumor's presence. I will speak with him, and apprize him of my plan."

"Perhaps we should loan him some of your things," suggested Ariashal.

"Possibly. I rather suspect, however, that the mere presence of a black-clad Numenorean will be enough to ensure compliance."

One of the guards opened the heavy curtained tent door. With a sudden rush, the three children spilled out, scrambling to reach their parents. Ariashal had a few glorious moments while their enthusiasm engulfed her, all of them talking at once.

"Momma guess what--Zimraphel took my pillows--We had the wolves all night--Adrahil hit me-No one told us a story--Imrahil is mean to me--Herumor did some magic--The guards let us try on their helmets--We never get to see anything--"

"Shhh!" She managed to keep from laughing. "Camping with the army agrees with you, I see."

"The sign of a good general is his willingness to share with his men." The King addressed the boys. "From all reports, you both have promising futures."

The boys beamed at their father. "Do you think we could stay with the army again?" asked Imrahil.

"I insist," answered the King. "Your presence here is a great help to me."

"What about me?" pouted Zimraphel.

"Of course you must stay. You must speak with the wolves for me."

She rushed past her brothers, seizing her father in a hug. "I want my own wolf when we get home!"

"That must be discussed with your mother. For now, it is as great an honor for the wolves to guard you as it is for Adzuphel and Herumor." He gently patted her head. "You three must remain inside with Herumor for the rest of the day."

"What? Why?"

"Your father has much to do today," explained Ariashal. "He feels it is best if you are inside, where the wolves and Herumor can better protect you."

"But--"

"No." Their father silenced them. Ariashal recognized the tone of his voice, and she knew that the children did, too; they would not disobey him. They quickly settled down.

Ariashal gave each of them a gentle kiss. "We will come for you when it is time. Now--tell me about last night."

The King strode into the tent. She spent the few minutes she had with her children settling their quarrels and fussing over their hair, their clothes, their shoes. Their nurse did an excellent job with them; they were always presentable, unless they had been playing. It pained her that she could not have them with her today, to display them again before Ferion. But the King was right: Ferion was dangerous, and the children were an all-too-tempting target.

After a few minutes the King rejoined them. He extracted solemn promises from each of them that they would not overly vex Herumor, and that they would obey at all times. When he was done he took Ariashal's hand and headed back for the castle.

She fought the urge to look back at the tent as she and the King entered the keep.

Once back inside, with guards stationed all around, the King insisted that they rest. He was satisfied, now, that the children were well and truly safe. They had time, too, for their council with Ferion would not be held until late in the day. He removed some of his clothes and weapons, although he kept the great sword close by. To her surprise she saw that he had laid aside his armor, leaving the mail near the foot of the bed. For a few moments Ariashal studied the shimmering hauberk. Her father and brothers had chain armor, too, but none so delicate and fine as this. The thousands of tiny rings, looped endlessly to each other, always impressed her; she could not fathom the amount of time and skill needed to craft such a thing. Instinctively she touched the supple mail. It was light, far lighter than anything her family ever owned.

"You find my shirt entrancing?"

Startled, she let go. "It is like nothing I have ever seen. My father had some, but his were heavy and coarse next to this."

"That is because his were mere steel. This is mithril, the precious metal of the dwarves. It weighs no more than a simple shirt of cloth."

"Mithril? But that is more precious than gold!" She picked it up. It was true--the thing was no heavier than her chemise. "Where did you get this? I have never heard of anyone owning more than a ring or two of mithril!"

"Twas made for me long ago. What you say is true--it is indeed priceless. I daresay that this shirt has more value than much of Rhudaur." He took it from her, gave it a good shake, and neatly folded it. "I always wear this when I am amongst my enemies. I do not like surprises."

 

  
Once again sleep eluded her. She finally gave up, deciding instead to sit quietly on the bed. Any movement might disturb her husband, and she desperately wanted him to rest. He needed to be at his best when they met with Ferion. If it were up to her, there would be no meeting at all, not unless Ferion was well and firmly chained. She did not trust her brother; he was likely to try something foolish.

The glittering mithril shirt caught her eye. As carefully as she could she drew it to herself. It flowed across the blankets, almost alive in its shimmering reptilian beauty. It was decorated around the neck and cuffs with heavier mithril bands. On some of these there was engraving, although she did not recognize the language. Perhaps it was some sort of protection spell, or, more prosaically, the name of the dwarven smith whose skill brought it to life.

Holding it on her lap, she had a strange sensation of timelessness, as though the centuries and millennia seen by the shirt were somehow caught in the rings themselves, suspending all in a single, seamless moment of time. How many battles had it known; how many victories, how many defeats? How often had it been at a place she knew only from her history! It must have seen the fall of Numenor, and the great wars of the Second Age. What else had it witnessed? Sauron's fall, certainly; Gil-Galad's death, possibly. And a thousand other tragedies were woven into it, too, the little victories and small defeats that make up the bulk of war.

If only there were some way to infuse it with her love, to wind her own desire to protect him through the tiny circles! Had his other wives helped him into it? Had her long-dead predecessors watched as he slipped on the gleaming shirt, wondering if it would be protection enough? Or had most of them stayed away, hoping that the shirt would fail, that the spell of the Ring would be broken, that they would never see him again? Perhaps a few had shed tears onto it, while others spat at the tight-knit mithril rings.

"You are much enamored of my shirt."

Startled, she dropped it onto her lap. "I did not know you were awake. I wanted you to rest."  
  
"I am rested enough." He sat up. "This hauberk has seen many battles, and never has it failed me. It will not do so today."

"I hope Ferion is reasonable."

"So do I. Perhaps," he said, taking the hauberk, "you should wear this."

"And leave you unprotected? Never! I would be much happier if you wore the hauberk."

"Very well." He stood and stretched. "But there is something which you will do for me."

"What, my lord?"

He did not answer. Instead he went to one of his own boxes, a black case bound in gold. A moment later he was back, a plain silver chain in hand. "I want you to wear this. It is not much, you understand, but should Ferion prove to be a bigger fool than I think him to be, it will keep you safe."

She held still while he slipped it over her head.

"Wear it beneath your chemise, where it cannot be seen."

"Like your hauberk."

"Precisely." He gently kissed her. "Always remember, madame, that armor for the flesh is much more readily obtained than that for the spirit. Now. We must ready ourselves for battle."

  



	23. Devolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

  
For the meeting with Ferion the King insisted that they wear their most spectacular robes and resplendent jewels. Ariashal knew just which gown that would be. She chose a grand forest green velvet, enriched with gold embroidery and pearls. Even the white brocade under-dress was heavy with the glow of tiny pearls set in gold. For once the King abandoned his favored black for a stunning set of vivid blue and gold robes; its huge sleeves dragged on the ground. Over it he wore the fabulous chains and jewels from Carn Dum. As they made their way to the meeting, surrounded by the black-clad guards of Angmar, light from the high windows reflected off their jewels and finery. Together it seemed they would outshine the very sun of Rhudaur.

Ferion waited for them in his throne room, flanked by his own unkempt guards. Their own portable thrones were set up opposite his; their own table was laid between them; their own carpets graced the floor beneath their feet. As they entered the room Ferion had the good grace to stand for receiving them. It was the first time, Ariashal noted ruefully, that he had treated them with the deference due their rank. Ferion had on the same drab clothes worn the day before. From the stains on the front she wondered if he ever took them off.

She waited while the King helped her to her seat. As carefully as possible she adjusted the heavy skirts so that the velvet would not crush too badly. The King settled next to her before placing his gloved hands on the table.

"Your guards may be dismissed," began Ferion. "There is nothing to fear from me."

"I prefer that they stay."

Ariashal watched her brother. If he was disappointed that the guards were staying, he managed to hide it well.

"Very well. I suppose we should begin. It would please me to no end if you let me take your daughter as wife for my grandson. It would further unite our kingdoms, and our families."

The King drew a long breath.

"Well?" demanded Ferion.

"Is it the custom in Rhudaur for one to be so blunt when dealing with his liege lord?"

Ferion drew back as if he had been slapped. "Why--what do you mean?"

"The journey to Rhudaur represents a not inconsiderable expenditure of time and effort. Surely the least you could do is enquire after our well-being before launching into affairs of state."

Ferion shifted uncomfortably in his throne. "I know that you are a busy man. I would not want to impede you in any way."

"As I said, I have already spent a great of time in getting here. I do not intend to leave immediately."

"I thought you would wish to return to Carn Dum while it is still summer. Before the snows set in," Ferion concluded, lamely.

"I see. You are considering our well-being. That is good. I would not want to think that our presence here is unwanted."

"Of course not!" Ferion's mouth twitched. "I am delighted to see my sister once again."

The King nodded. "You must understand, Ferion. I am a curious man. If I am not wanted somewhere, I usually take it upon myself to discover why."

"Do not think that!" Ferion smiled nervously. "I am proud to have you as my guest. I merely thought that you would prefer to do away with all the niceties, and simply discuss the reason behind your journey."

"I see." The King folded his hands. "Well. I must tell you that you have made an interesting offer, but one that I fear is not possible. I have already received an offer for her which is considerably more advantageous."

Ferion's mouth twitched. "From whom, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"Cardolan."

Ariashal saw a flicker, a flash, in her brother's eyes. This was not what he was prepared to hear.

"Cardolan," Ferion repeated. "And what do you think of this, my sister?"

Ariashal caught her breath. She knew that there was no such offer; the King was trying to fluster her brother. "I will support my husband's decision in this matter."  
  
"Indeed. And what part of Cardolan has pledged this?"

"What possible difference could that make? The King of Cardolan has made the offer himself. He too has a grandson who will be a suitable match. It will permit me to ally Angmar with another Dunedain kingdom. Such a union is desirable, is it not?"

She watched Ferion's mouth twitching. "I--I suppose so. I-- must admit I had not heard of such a marriage from Cardolan."

"Does the King of Cardolan see fit to tell you all of his business?"

"I--no, my lord, but I do speak with many of his sons regularly."

"Obviously, you do not know them as well as you have assumed. Besides, Zimraphel is a princess. She deserves to be married to the heir of a kingdom."

Ferion looked confused. "What do you mean? My grandson is my heir!"

"Heir? Heir to what? Rhudaur is a kingdom no longer."

" _What_?" shouted Ferion. "What are you saying?"

"When your father signed the marriage contract which sent your sister to Angmar, the treaty required the payment of a dowry in the form of tribute for twenty years. You have not paid in three years. Therefore, you are in default. To protect the interests of my queen and her children, the lands of Rhudaur are now officially assumed into Angmar."

" _What_?" Ferion stood, furious. "My father never signed that! He would never give you his kingdom!"

"I have the treaty with me. Do you wish to see it?"

"I--Yes!"

"Very well." The King carefully pulled a long tube of scarlet silk from his belt. Deftly he untied one end, tipped out the tightly-rolled scroll, and laid both scroll and case on the table. "That is you father's signature, is it not? There, next to his seal?"

Ferion snatched the scroll from the table. Ariashal could see his eyes racing over the elegant calligraphy of the document.

"You will notice," continued the King, "the clause covering the dowry. As you can see, it says _‘in consideration of payment in full'_. You do see that, do you not?"

Ferion continued to study the scroll.

"I forgave you one year, due to drought. Since then, you have received more than adequate rainfall to permit payment of the dowry. Yet you have not done so. And so, I am now forced to exercise the devolution clause."

"My father," began Ferion, voice shaking, "never intended this. He would never have signed this!"

"What are you suggesting?"

Ferion slammed the scroll onto the table. "Never, in a thousand years, would my father have signed this. Never!"

The King tapped the scroll. "Perhaps we should ask him."

"Ask him? How? He lays dead in his tomb!"

"There are ways." The King rerolled the scroll.

"You fiend!" shrieked Ferion. "You would force his ghost to speak? You would twist it to say whatever you wished! I know what you are! I know what you can do!"

"And I know that the house of Rhudaur cannot respect a treaty."

"Damn you!" Ferion swept the treaty from the table. "I will never let you seize this land! Never! Not so long as I live will you do this!"

"Out of consideration for your sister," began the King, "I have chosen to leave you alive. There are those amongst my men who would insist on a different course."

"My grandson will fight you," hissed Ferion. "All my blood will fight you! Never will you know rest!"

"That is why your grandchildren will be leaving with me."

"You? I will not suffer the sight of them with you!"

"There is a good deal more which you could suffer."

For a moment Ferion was silent, too furious to speak.

"This is an unwholesome place for rearing children," continued the King smoothly. "Since you insist that you cannot afford to pay me, I must assume that you also cannot afford adequate care for them. Here they live in squalor, which is hardly acceptable for children of their lineage."

"If they live in squalor, it is because you have impoverished us!"

"I? The tribute owed Angmar is considerably less than the cost of erecting that new tower on the border."

"Tower?" asked Ferion stupidly.

"Yes, the one which I have recently claimed for Angmar. You are aware of its presence, are you not?"

" _That_ tower? That was--that was a compromise!"

"With whom, and for what? The Cardolani princes who lived there have gone. Perhaps they were the same ones who did not see fit to speak to you of their father's business. "

"What did you do to them?"

"As I said, Ferion, you could suffer more."

"You!" Ferion turned on Ariashal. "You are my blood! You will let him do this thing? You will let him take my family?"

For a few moments she studied her brother. All those years ago he had willingly sent her off to Angmar; even if he had known the truth about the King at the time, he would have done nothing to prevent it. It had certainly not been either her father's nor her brother's intent that her marriage to the Witch-King would turn out well. Never in their lives had Ferion considered her anything more than a bauble to be traded away for whatever would gain him the most.

"Nay, Ferion," she answered, "I will insist on it."  



	24. Seance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

The removal of Ferion's grandchildren to the tent outside the keep went fairly smoothly. The Royal children were thrilled to have new playmates, even if they were still quite young. Thabadan, the eldest, was slightly younger than Zimraphel, and his sister Lalwen was younger still. Ariashal wanted their old nurse to come along, but the King refused; such a position, he warned, could too easily be used to launch an attack against their own children. And so they were given to the women who cared for the Royal brood.

At first they missed their old things, and cried for their old nurse. But they quickly adjusted to having a larger bed, clean clothes, new things to explore. Lalwen followed Zimraphel everywhere, and was soon cuddling up to the wolves. Thabadan insisted on calling the wolves "doggies", which sent the older boys into giggling fits. Zimraphel and Lalwen merely hugged the wolves, and smiled.

The King ordered Ferion banished to the rooms which the Royal couple had so recently occupied. Ferion's rooms, the highest in the castle, were henceforth to be the home of the Royal couple. To Ariashal's surprise, the furnishings in Ferion's quarters were much richer than those on public display. "How could he say he was impoverished when he lived like this?" she asked, fingering the silk bed hangings.

"Nay, my queen," he explained, "twas no surprise to me. Ferion is not the first lord to cry poverty in public while dining off gold. I know he will not be the last."

"I still find it unsettling."

"As well you should. There is no telling what else he has managed to hide."

"What will we do with these things?"

"I suppose he may have them, if that would please you. Otherwise I would place these in a suite for our more distinguished guests. Our own things will be brought up here."

She was tempted to say that Ferion could sleep with the pigs, but managed to hold her tongue. "I think he should use the things he thought good enough for us."

"A wise decision. He does not deserve better, and I daresay he deserves a great deal less. These things will make a fine impression on our guests."

"What about the rest of the furnishings here?"

"I will have them put out for those who wish to take them. Some may want the old tapestries and carpets to line their own homes against the cold. And the old furniture will also be laid out. Some is no better than firewood, but the poorer folk may find a use for it."

"Why not simply burn it?"

"And lose the chance to bind the people to us? Nay, my queen. Even though it be worn and stained, tis still equipment of quality. Let our subjects take what they may."

"At least we have our own things to make this a decent court."

"Indeed we do. I will have weavers brought from Angmar to instruct some of the folk here. They can make the carpets and tapestries themselves. I had Adzuphel search for any local manufacturers, but there are none. No one here does any work other than support the regiment of this fortress."

Ariashal shook her head. "It seems that Ferion neglected everything."

"That he did, madame. I will have the men set to work at once. All should soon be returned to order."

 

 

 

To the surprise of absolutely no one, Ferion did not accept his demotion with good grace. He whined to all who would listen about his betrayal by his sister, about the treaty that could not possibly be valid, about his insufficient new quarters. Ariashal, his beloved sister, the flower of Rhudaur whom he had done everything for, had returned to him as the wife of evil personified. He had tried to warn her of the danger of such a marriage, but would she listen to his wise counsel? No, she had _insisted_ on marrying the Witch-King. Why, she had even hoped to use her curse to her advantage! Obviously the only reason the Witch-King still lived was because he was as evil as she.

For the most part the King ignored Ferion's hysterics, but they began to prey on Ariashal. She knew the truth; she knew who had betrayed whom. But the fact that her own brother was spreading venomous rumors about her family cut her to the core. She feared that someone would believe him, and would agree that her children were devil-spawn in need of slaughter.

Accordingly she spent as much time with them as was possible. All day she stayed at their tent, making certain that they did their lessons and minded the nurse. Herumor seemed to appreciate her presence; he used her arrival as a signal to slip off into his own darkened tent for rest. Ariashal suspected that he too was one of the Nazgul, but dared not ask.

One day she took Zimraphel back to the new royal apartment. The boys were out practicing archery under the watchful eye of Herumor; the King trusted no one else to supervise their weapons training. Lalwen was sleeping with one of the wolves, while the nurse quietly stitched a new shift for the little girl. Zimraphel, bored by the quiet camp, was thrilled to accompany her mother back to the keep.

Ariashal held her daughter's hand while they made their way through the old castle. Everywhere people were washing walls and floors, tearing out old and rotted wooden beams, replacing broken windows. Occasionally she stopped to check on the work in progress, speaking with the servants individually and inquiring after their health. It was a simple, useful method of rewarding the servants that she had learned from the King; the workers were pleased to show off their handiwork, and she was pleased to reward them with her smiles.

They paused for a moment at the entrance to the great hall. It had been transformed from the dingy temporary throne room of Ferion into a much more splendid chamber. Many of the grand tapestries they had brought from Carn Dum hung here, along with the banners of Angmar and Rhudaur. The fine carpets used for the meeting with Ferion now covered most of the floor. The King's throne was surrounded by the hangings used to decorate their pavilion while reviewing troops.

Zimraphel wanted to rush to her father, but Ariashal stopped her. The King was busy with Adzuphel and some other men, most of whom were being prepared to govern the newly-acquired Rhudaur. She did not want to disturb the men at their work. Instead they watched silently while the issue of a reliable census for Rhudaur was discussed. Even from this distance the King's annoyance with Ferion's lackluster approach to ruling was quite evident.

Zimraphel quickly tired of the slow pace of government. Ariashal finally led the fidgety child away, lest she upset the King or intrude upon his work. How, she wondered, could Ferion have let things fall so far? Rhudaur had never been a terribly prosperous kingdom, but it had been reasonably successful. Even when her father was alive, the endless wars with Cardolan had been unable to crush the very life from Rhudaur. But Ferion had managed to do so, and in a surprisingly short period of time. He had ruled for less than seven years; and in that time he had driven his kingdom into the ground. She feared it would take years for the King to completely revive it.

At the entrance to the Royal suite she let Zimraphel order the guards to open the doors. They did so willingly, bowing to their princess as she swept into the rooms.

Once inside Zimraphel scampered about, inspecting the great bed, the hangings, the cases of her mother's jewelry. Ariashal watched her antics with a mix of relief and joy. No one would dare harm her daughter. And if anyone was foolish enough to do so, they would have more than the wrath of the Witch-King to contend with!

Zimraphel disappeared into the antechamber, where she could look out over the fields. A moment later she skipped back in.

"Momma, the old man wants to talk to you."

"Old man?" she asked, surprised. No one was supposed to be in here without the express permission of either her or the ing. "What old man?"

"The old man in here." Zimraphel took Ariashal's hand, pulling her towards the antechamber. "He is sad."

Who could this be? A spy? Someone with word of a plot against the King? Heart pounding, Ariashal followed her daughter into the room.

"See?" Zimraphel pointed at an empty chair. "The old man. He wants to see you."

Ariashal felt a sudden chill wash over her, felt her scalp tingle and her hair stand erect.

"Momma?" Zimraphel tugged at her. "He wants to talk to you."

Without a word Ariashal seized Zimraphel in her arms. She backed out of the room, out the chamber, out the door.

"What is wrong?" asked the guard, alarmed by the sight of the Queen.

"Lock this door," she ordered, trembling. "I must get to the King!"

 

 

 

She half-pulled, half-carried Zimraphel down the stairs, ignoring the child's protests. She did not know what was in the room upstairs, but it was beyond her ability to confront it. The King would know what to do.

At the bottom of the stairs she paused, catching her breath.

"Momma," began Zimraphel, "why are we going to see Daddy? The old man is afraid of Daddy."

"What makes you think that?"

"He said so. He called Daddy a _nazgoo_."

"Well, the old man was wrong. Your father will not harm him, unless he wishes to harm you, or us. Do you understand?"

"I think so. I said Daddy was good, but he was still scared."

"I see. Now we must speak with your father."

 

 

 

At the great hall she swept past the guards, ignoring them as they saluted her. She marched across the hall, Zimraphel in tow, and stopped at the paper-strewn table.

"My lord, I must speak with you immediately."

The King did not look up. "As you can see, my queen, we are very busy."

"This cannot wait."

He sighed. "Very well. What is it?"

"Zimraphel saw an old man upstairs."

"Is that all?"

"My lord, I--I cannot see this man," she managed to keep her voice steady. "But Zimraphel can, and says he speaks with her."

He turned towards her. "What does he say, Zimraphel?"

"He says he is very sad. And he wants to talk to Momma."

"I see." For a moment he tapped the table. "Very well. Gentlemen, consider this meeting adjourned. We will continue this later today."

"As you wish, Your Majesty." Adzuphel gathered up the scattered papers.

The King stood to go. All the other men bowed to him as the royal family left the room.

At the foot of the stairs he swept Zimraphel into his arms. "Tell me, little one, who is this man?"

"He is old and sad. And he calls you a _nazgoo_."

"He does, does he. What else does he say?"

"He says he wants to talk to Momma."

"I see. Perhaps he will speak with all of us."

 

 

 

Once inside the royal apartment, he carefully set Zimraphel down. She skipped off into the antechamber, searching for the old man.

A moment later she returned, crestfallen. "He is gone!"

"Is he, now." The King quietly opened one of his traveling boxes. "I do not think he has gone far. Watch, Zimraphel. I will bring him back to us."

"How?" She crowded close to the box.

"You will see. I need only this candle, and this ink. He will come to us presently."

Ariashal watched, fascinated, as her husband laid out the instruments of his trade. She had rarely seen him work before; usually he secreted himself in his study, where she dared not tread. But this was different. She got the distinct impression that much of this was more for Zimraphel and herself than the King; she doubted that he needed anything to conjure the thing Zimraphel had seen.

"Now. We draw the circle thus." She watched as he deftly sketched a simple pentagram on the table, taking care not to spill the ink. To her surprise he drew it without once lifting the pen from the table; she wondered if that was required for the spell to work properly. When he finished she could tell neither where the symbol started nor ended.

"The hand must be steady," he continued, "else the spell will fail. Now we must close the windows." With a sweep of his hand, the windows flew shut. Zimraphel oohed in delight.

Ariashal saw him take the blue candle from the table. He held it to his hand, and with a sudden spark the wick snapped into flame. Giggling, Zimraphel reached for it.

"Nay, child, this is not for you. I will teach you this, and many other things besides; but now we must retrieve your visitor."

He set the candle in the center of the pentagram, waited until the flame ceased flickering. With one hand he reached into the air, as though he was pulling someone through a door. " _Nakh! Mano! Nakh_!"

The candle fluttered as the room sank into coldness. Ariashal felt a breath of something sweep past her, brushing aside her hair. She fought the urge to flee.

"Daddy!" cried Zimraphel, delighted. "You made him come back!"

"Aye, daughter. Now we will see what it is he wishes to say."

It took every bit of will in her being for Ariashal to stay where she was. This was not natural; this was unearthly, perhaps even unholy. She should not be here; she should not let her daughter be here, she should not let her husband do this. She should run away, far away, far from the candles and pentagrams and the other bizarre things that he kept in his boxes. She should go, now, while she--

"Ariashal is quite content, as you can see."

She stared past her husband and into the room. No one was there, no one visible to her, anyway; and yet she knew that they were not alone.

"Zimraphel is your granddaughter. She too is safe."

_Granddaughter_? Could this be--

"Nay, King Turabar. They are far safer with me than they would be alone."

"Why do you call Daddy a _nazgoo_?" asked Zimraphel.

"Tis an old word, my child, in a language best left dead. I think that he will not call me that again."

Ariashal clutched her husband's shoulder, steadying herself. There were a thousand questions she wanted to ask her father, a thousand things she wished to understand; but she could not bring herself to speak to the empty air.  
  
"Nay, Turabar. I fear she can neither see nor hear you. You must tell me and Zimraphel what it is you seek."

Ariashal heard a soft whispering, too faint to understand, blowing through the room. For several moments she tried, desperately, to make some sense out of the fragile sounds, only to lose her way in the whirling murmurs. If only she could hear one word, one simple word that would tell her that this was, indeed, her father!

"Such wisdom oft comes too late for men," agreed the King. "Choosing to ignore the warnings of the old is an art much practiced by the young. Twas always so. But how does this make Ferion deadly?"

"Do not be so sad!" Zimraphel reached up into nothingness.

"Nay, child, he has much to sadden him. What was the nature of the poison used?"

"Poison?" asked Ariashal, shocked.

"Aye, madame. It seems Ferion used poison to hasten your father's death."

"But--but why?"

"Your father will tell us."

Ariashal leaned against him, hoping to hear something, fearful of what it might be. She was no longer as frightened of the ghost as she was of her brother, a state of affairs she would never have been able to imagine before. Yet here she was, in a darkened room, while her husband and daughter conversed with the dead. And the man responsible for the death of her father wandered freely in the castle.

"Very well," said the King at last. "And consider how few of those who dwell in the shadows of the spirit realm receive what you seek."

"Are you going away now?" asked Zimraphel.

"He needs to rest now, child. But fear not. He will be here in Rhudaur for some time. He wishes to watch over you and your brothers."

Ariashal found her voice. "Can--can they see him, too?"

"Aye, it seems all my children inherited that gift. Do you wish to speak with your father before he leaves, my queen?"

She tried, harder than she thought possible, to force the words out. But they would not come. The empty air before her, the full tomb below--she could not reconcile the two. If only she could see him herself, it would be different; but she could not; others could, but she, his own daughter, was barred from seeing him. The aching loneliness that now filled her was too much to bear. She buried her head on the King's shoulder and wept.

Silently, he blew out the candle.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	25. Black Opal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

For the next several hours, guards thoroughly searched the castle, its grounds, the surrounding gardens. The King decreed that Ferion must be found, and soon. Wolves and orcs were dispatched to scour the countryside. To no avail. Ferion had completely disappeared. Someone remembered him mentioning going hunting, someone else recalled him speaking about inspecting the Rhudaurian forces. Rumors swirled about the keep: he was going to reclaim his grandchildren; he was planning to raise an army in Cardolan; he was riding for Gondor. The only thing that could be ascertained was that he was no longer at the keep.  
  
Ariashal was distraught. No; she was beyond distraught, beyond frightened, beyond--what? She did not know. She simply clung to her husband, and waited for news of her brother's capture.  
  
Comfort was what she sorely needed; and comfort was the one thing which she could not easily receive. Because of the gravity of the situation, the King was constantly in public; and as Queen she must maintain a certain air of strength, no matter how dreadful the day's events. In this she was helped immeasurably by the King, who held her hand and never strayed from her side. Every now and then he whispered some reassuring words to her. Simply having him near made the day survivable.  
  
At nightfall guards and watches were doubled. The King suspected that Ferion had gotten wind about why he was being sought, and had chosen to flee. Probably rumors had spread from the interrupted meeting, and some had reached Ferion in time for him to escape. This meant that all Rhudaurians were immediately suspect, for who else would warn him? No one from Angmar, certainly.  
  
Ariashal wondered if the children might not be better off in the keep, near her and the King; but the King felt they were safer with Herumor. Bringing them in now would only tell Ferion that they feared him, and that was something which they must not do. If anyone should be afraid, it would be Ferion: with orcs, soldiers and wolves hunting him, he would not be free for long.  
  
Somewhere around midnight the King finally suggested that they retire. There was nothing more they could do; and Ariashal was clearly at the end of her tether. She desperately needed rest, and she would not be able to relax without him.  
  
Once they were alone she collapsed, exhausted, on the bed. She wanted to cry, but the tears stubbornly refused to come. The King sat beside her, gently stroking her shoulders.  
  
"My men will find him," he soothed. "Ferion will not return to harm the children."  
  
She burrowed deeper into the pillows.  
  
"Ariashal, did you not hear me? Ferion will be found. I assure you, he has not gone far."  
  
"It is not Ferion," she mumbled into the pillow.  
  
"No? If not Ferion, then what? Was it the seance? I did not wish to frighten you, but I had to learn what Zimraphel saw."  
  
At the thought of the seance the floodgates opened. Sobbing, she managed to pull away from the pillow. "Why?" she whimpered between sobs, "why?"  
  
"Ferion wanted the throne. Tis not the first time a father has fallen to the ambitions of an amoral son."  
  
"No." She shook her head. "No. I mean, why can I not see him? I am his daughter! Why is he denied me?"  
  
The King drew a long breath. "That, I do not know. Certainly twas you he wished to speak with, not me. Zimraphel can see him, for she is a child. Most children can see them quite easily. That ours inherited my gift means that they will never lose the ability to do so.  
  
"Most Men soon learn to not see them. Why this should be is something which I do not fully understand. Perhaps it is best for men not to see all those who have passed, mingling with those who have not."  
  
"But he saw me!"  
  
"Yes, he did. If he had not, I doubt he would have willingly told of Ferion's treachery. He now wishes only for vengeance. The supreme irony that I will be the instrument of his vengeance is not wasted on him. This was certainly not what he expected when he sent you to me."  
  
She leaned against him. "He is my father. Did he have nothing to say to me? No message? Has he--has he even seen my mother?"  
  
He sighed. "I know tis a hard thing for you to hear, my queen. But he wants only vengeance. Once he saw that you were at my side, he was satisfied. Of your mother he said nothing."  
  
More tears ran down her face. "But he has--he has not seen my mother? Did she mean nothing to him?"  
  
"Ariashal, she may not be here. She may have gone on. She died long before you had children. There is nothing to hold her here."  
  
"But--but I was here! Did she stop caring for my father? Did she stop--did she stop caring for me?"  
  
He slipped one arm around her, drawing her close. "I do not know. I could summon her and ask her, but I believe that she has long since left the Halls of Mandos and found peace. Her death was hard, for she died having your sister, did she not?"  
  
"She--she died, and the baby died soon after. I was no older than Imrahil."  
  
"I know. She needed a long time to rest, and she had much to reflect upon, before she could find peace and continue. Your father, though, will have no peace, and he will accept no peace, while Ferion walks among the living. His hatred for your brother is tying him here."  
  
"He would rather stay and wait for Ferion to die than join my mother?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"But why?"  
  
"Vengeance. Vengeance and hate, which oftentimes are stronger together than love alone. And this craving for vengeance is the very thing which drives spirits mad. As I said, your father's vengeance will be served. For many more it never will, and thus they roam the world forever, lost and unable to rest."  
  
She laid her head against his chest. Her mother, alone; her father, hungry for revenge--she was surrounded by ghosts, ghosts that were the true essence of emptiness. And here she was, safe and warm in the embrace of one called wraith.  
  
Slowly she took his hand in hers. "My lord, there is something I must know."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Why do you try to hide yourself from me?"  
  
"I do not understand."  
  
She closed her hands over the ring. "Why do you try to keep your true nature from me? My father knows, our children know; even Ferion, fool that he is, knows the truth. Why do you insist on trying to hide it from me?"  
  
He drew a long breath. "Ariashal, there are some things which you are best not knowing."  
  
"This is not one of them." She sat up, still holding the ring. "I have borne your children. I have tended your wounds. Do not tell me that I cannot know the truth about this ring."  
  
"Ariashal--"  
  
"What? Do you think I will flee?"  
  
He tried to hold his voice in check. "There are things which you should not understand."  
  
"What things? My father was murdered by my brother. I waited alone, all night, fearing you had been slain in that tower. I drank a potion to prevent having another child for you. I have shed endless tears for your safety. Do you think you can tell me that I do not need to understand?"  
  
He said nothing.  
  
"Sauron is dead!" she cried. "He is--"  
  
"Never say that name!" he snapped, crushing her hands in his. "Never! Do you understand? Spies are everywhere!"  
  
"But he is dead!"  
  
"No, Ariashal!" he hissed. "He is not dead. Even now He lurks in Dol Guldur!"  
  
"Dol Guldur?" The full horror of what he said struck her, hard as any fist. "But my father--my father met with men from Dol Guldur!"  
  
"And your father was deceived. We were all deceived. I wondered why your father approached me about an alliance. It was only recently that I learned the truth. I did not suspect such trickery behind the alliance, else I would not have made it."  
  
"What? What are you saying? Do you regret marrying me?"  
  
"No! No, Ariashal." He clutched her close to him. "No. Never, for one moment, have I regretted taking you as my wife. No. You do not know-- you do not know how much you mean to me."  
  
She could feel him trembling as he held her. "My lord, then, what is it that you fear?"  
  
For some time he did not answer. When at last he spoke, he was hushed. "I fear that the evil tendrils He sends from Dol Guldur will reach you."  
  
"You do not fear for yourself?"  
  
"Not in the way you may think."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"If I am found, if my enemies learn of my presence here, they will be relentless. Ferion must be silenced before he rouses all of Arthedain, or, worse, reaches Imladris. I promise you that they will not show me the mercy which is so oft attributed to them.  
  
"Angmar is still too weak to contend with them, and should they unite all will be destroyed. I have labored too long and hard to lose all to the ravings of a displaced Dunedain king."  
  
"You would receive no help from Dol Guldur?"  
  
"No! I would sooner see all Angmar laid waste than permit Him to come to my aid!"  
  
"I do not understand. I thought you were allies."  
  
"No. Not allies."  
  
"What, then?"  
  
He drew a long breath. "Ariashal, you are still innocent. Once you learn, you cannot unlearn. You are much better off naive."  
  
"I do not think so." She pulled herself as close to his face as she could. "I know what you are. Yet I do not fear you. I will never betray you. I will defend you, no matter the cost. And you know how deeply I feel for you."  
  
"Should He find you, that would not be enough to protect you. I will not be able to hold Him in check. He will crush me, and utterly pervert and destroy you."  
  
"He has not done that to you."  
  
"No? You see me now, Ariashal, twisted and broken from the years of thralldom to Him. You do not see the man I was, and can never be again. Even my name was taken from me, and bound into this ring. Against His power you would be helpless."  
  
"But you have survived!"  
  
"Only because I have fought Him, and passed His trials, and refused to break. I assure you, Ariashal, He has tried every trick, every torture, every test He can think of to defeat me. But I will not be broken. Not completely. He can take my name, He can force his will upon me, but now He is weak, and as long as I am able I will not concede to Him."  
  
"How did this happen?" she asked. "How did you fall prey to Him?"  
  
He sighed. "Do you truly wish to know? Do you truly want to know what happened?"  
  
"Yes, my lord," she said, her heart pounding.  
  
He hung his head. "Very well," he whispered. "I will tell you all."  
  
For several moments he held her close, whispering in a language she did not understand. His voice rose and fell, and with each shift in volume she could feel a slight warmth swirling past. It was almost as though a heavy curtain was being woven around them, with the words of the spell the warp and weft of the fabric. After a few minutes he stopped.  
  
"It is done," he said. "This will keep unwelcome listeners at bay."  
  
She turned from him. They were surrounded by a shimmering sheet of yellow light, curving to follow the bed. He gently released her, settling back on the pillows.  
  
"No one can hear us?"  
  
"Not unless they wish to use powerful magic. And anything which could pierce this spell would be easily detected."  
  
"I see." She crawled up next to him, laying her head on his shoulder.  
  
"Do you still wish to know?"  
  
"Yes, my lord."  
  
For a few moments he nervously toyed with the fringe on one of the pillows. "I suppose I should start at the beginning. My father, you see, was King of Numenor."  
  
She looked up at him. "Numenor?"  
  
"Aye, madame, Numenor. When I was born, my mother named me for the moon, because she said my eyes were as like to the full moon as she had ever seen. However, my sister was born first, and so inherited the scepter; but she never wished to wield it, and longed to give it to me. But my father forbade that, saying that the laws must be upheld. And so she was prepared for the day when she would take the scepter.  
  
"But I was not idle. My gifts were discovered early. Most of the kings of Numenor had some of the gift; we are descended from Elros, and the blood of the elves sometimes proves strong. And so it was with me. They sent for sorcerers to train me, but I soon outgrew them. Others came, I learned their secrets, and then they were replaced by others whose magic I was quick to master.  
  
"My parents were afraid, a little, of my gift. It is not common for a Man to master these arts. It is not even common for elves to do so. To keep me from becoming too enamored of sorcery, they insisted on training me to bear arms and fight. They were overjoyed that I excelled at these as well. And my sister was well-pleased. She knew that eventually she would be handing the scepter to one who could wield it fearlessly, the way it was meant to be wielded. She it was who first called me Witch-King, saying that I would be the first Witch-King to rule Numenor.  
  
"My father noticed that there were many in the court who followed me. He feared that I would attempt a coup and eliminate my sister. Truth to tell, I had no interest in removing her; while she prepared to rule I was free to pursue my studies. But my father's will was law, and he soon sent me here, to see if I could use magic to create a bastion of culture amongst the savages.  
  
"We spent many years building a colonial kingdom for Numenor, doing what we could to control the wild and lawless men who made their homes here. My first Queen hated these lands, and as soon as our son was born she returned to the court of Numenor.  
  
"And if I must say so, I did not miss her overmuch. She lacked the strength needed to be a great Queen. She was unhappy, she longed for her family, she wanted a life in a palace, not in a fortress full of men. If it had been permitted I would have willingly divorced her. But I could not, and so let her go. I regretted that she took our son; but my father wanted him in Numenor, where he would be safe from the more brutal elements of life here.  
  
"And so, for some years, we made our fortresses and our homes here, bringing the men into our circle who could be civilized, warring against those who could not. Many of them spoke odd tongues, some of which held spells they did not know how to use. Unlocking the secrets hidden in their languages fascinated me, and I spent many long hours unearthing spells that had not been uttered in centuries.  
  
"It was while I was studying some of these languages that the ring first came to me." He fell silent, as though the memory of that day was too much to bear.  
  
"And?" she prompted.  
  
He drew a long breath. "An elf prince rode into my city, with desperate news. We knew of the war between the elves and Sauron, although we were not entirely certain what was behind it. I was not pleased that my sister sent my son to represent Numenor, instead of asking me. By then she had adopted the boy, without my permission, and my feelings towards her were less than cordial.  
  
"Anyway, I did not know this elf, but as I did not know all the elves in Middle Earth it did not seem too strange. He told me he had come from Celebrimbor himself, and at that I grew attentive. Celebrimbor was their greatest maker of wondrous things, and more than once he and I had corresponded over the creation of difficult and unusual enchanted items. He told me that before Celebrimbor fell to Sauron, he had given his greatest creation to the prince so that it could be hidden from the Dark Lord."  
  
"And that was the ring."  
  
"Nay, madame, twas not one ring, but sixteen; all of the Rings of Power Sauron and Celebrimbor made together. They had originally been meant for the elves, but when Sauron came to retrieve them they feared that they would fall into his hands. And so they had asked three of their princes to take the rings, and carry them to safety.  
  
"So the prince offered me the most powerful of the sixteen. He wanted me to have it, because I was Numenorean, and a sorcerer. He would have preferred taking the rings to Numenor proper, but Sauron was watching too closely. And so it was decided to offer it to the strongest of the Men of Middle Earth.  
  
"He told me that, since it had been made for an elf, it might have some properties which the lower Men could not control. But as Numenoreans are half-Elven, we could use it with care. He warned me that its powers were great, but if I used it wisely I could harness its strength to defeat Sauron and keep my kingdom safe. He also told me that it would permit me to become invisible, if I wished; it would grant me longer life; it would enhance the power of my spells. To truly use all its powers, I would need to claim it; but he warned me against doing so, unless the need was dire. All I would have to do to claim it was perform the ritual which he gave me, and to make certain that I spoke my name as I did so.  
  
"He stayed less than a day before riding off. His mission was to place as many rings with as many different kingdoms as possible, to keep them all from falling into Sauron's hands. He was riding further south, another prince was going east, and the third was riding to the dwarves. This way, he said, the rings would forever be safe."  
  
Slowly, silently, he pulled the gauntlets from his hands. "Give me your hand," he said.  
  
Ariashal nervously held out her palm. A sudden weight landed there.  
  
"That is my ring."  
  
Cautiously, she studied it. Its gold shimmered brilliantly in the reflected yellow light of the magic curtain. Elegant, swirling beasts interlaced to form the band of the ring, finally ending in tiny heads whose mouths were opened wide to hold a single stone in place. The stone itself was a massive black cabochon, with patches of blue, green and red floating within. "What is the jewel?"  
  
"A black opal. It is not the original stone."  
  
She looked up. "What happened? Did you replace it?"  
  
"No. Sauron replaced them. When they did not work as He wanted, He reclaimed the rings and replaced the original gems with ones He had enchanted. This opal is the replacement. What the original was, I do not know."  
  
"But I thought you said that the ring was given to you to keep it from Sauron!"  
  
"Indeed I did, for that was what I was told. What I did not know was that the elf prince who so carefully brought me this ring for safekeeping was none other than Sauron Himself."  
  
"What? How--how could he do that?"  
  
"He could take any form He chose, fair or fell. He knew that I would not willingly parlay with Him, and so He took a form which would allay my concerns. His story was plausible enough. And so, I believed Him."  
  
She carefully turned the ring over. "Is it safe for you to be without this? I do not wish to cause you any harm."  
  
He broke into laughter, a hard, mirthless sound that chilled her to the bone. "Nay, Ariashal, I can be parted from it for quite some time. My power may be diminished, but I am still bound to that ring. If I die, if I fall in battle, it matters not--I will return, for the ring lives. I am chained to that ring for all eternity!"  
  
"That cannot be! How is such a thing possible?"  
  
Again he drew a long breath. "After the-- prince-- left, I kept the ring as both a matter of honor and a subject of not a little curiosity. My new queen was intrigued by it, and liked that I would appear suddenly in her chambers. For her, and I, it was a trifling amusement.  
  
"Came the day when word reached me that Sauron was marching on my borders. I could not have that, for I did not want Him to claim either the ring or my kingdom. I wore it into battle, and we easily drove His forces away. Twas the ring which brought the victory at so little cost to me, of that I was certain. And so I came to need it for battle, when its powers kept me from harm.  
  
"And I noticed that my spells worked more effectively if I wore it when conjuring. Soon I was wearing it to do the most trivial of enchantments, for now they never failed. I carried it to council meetings, for it seemed that it gave me wisdom. If I swung a sword, it granted me strength. If I spoke to men, it made me compelling. It was the greatest gift I could have ever hoped to receive.  
  
"Time and again Sauron's forces appeared at my borders, and every time they easily crumbled before me. Years passed, yet I did not age. I knew that the elves wished to preserve things as they were, and the ring obviously was meant to enhance that. What else it might do was a mystery to me, for if I were to unlock its full powers I must needs claim it. And that I was loath to do.  
  
"One day word came that Sauron was again massing His forces. One by one the neighboring kingdoms had fallen to Him. This time, however, He was personally coming, and His main target was me. I knew that, if I wished to defeat Him, I had no choice but to claim the ring. Yet I was still apprehensive about doing so. It had been made for an elf, not a man; and while I might be Numenorean, there was still the chance that it would either kill me, or render me helpless. But I believed I could not lead my kingdom in battle without it, and I did not wish to leave my people undefended. And so I said good day to my queen and my sons, and rode out to a ridge, where I could perform the spell in secret.  
  
"I never saw them again."  
  
Once again he stopped, as though the pain of what had happened that day was still fresh and raw. Ariashal waited, expectant, knowing full well that her speaking would only make the pain worse for him.  
  
"When I reached the ridge, I followed the directions given me so long before. I stripped away my clothes, I sliced open a vein to bathe the ring in my blood, and then I spoke the spell. And when I said my name--when I said my name I felt something rip away from me, as though my very heart was being torn from my body. The pain drove me to my knees, and I cried out in anguish. And the ring--the ring glowed, with the life it had taken from me. I collapsed, senseless, into the grass.  
  
"When I awoke next I was with--Him."  
  
"Sauron?" she whispered.  
  
He nodded. "I was in a chamber. I ached, and felt sick, sicker than I had ever felt in my life. I despised my weakness, for it meant I could not fight whatever had taken me prisoner. I managed to stand, and to stagger to a bench. I still had no clothes, nothing-- save the ring. I was struggling to regain my strength when I heard a voice, a voice unlike any I had ever heard. I looked up to see who was speaking, and I nearly collapsed again.  
  
"For He was not what you would expect, Ariashal. He was beautiful; with a beauty that surpassed that of any man, or woman, I had ever seen. And His voice--His voice was elegant and musical; when He spoke, it was as though He sang. He had yellow hair and tawny skin; to me He seemed a being made of living gold. He told me that He had watched me for some time, and now wanted to teach me sorcery greater than any ever wielded by Men.  
  
"But first I would have to do things for Him.  
  
"There was a cost, you see, for the ring was no gift. I would command His armies, I would rule His kingdoms, I would do His bidding at any time and in any manner in which He saw fit to demand. I could not deny Him. If I tried, then He brought the full power of His ring to bear on me. Before long I did what He wished, no matter how it affected me personally."  
  
There was a new hardness in his voice, a tension which she had not heard before. Discussing his past was clearly not something he enjoyed doing.  
  
"I learned many things in His library that He probably did not want me to know," the King continued, the hardness slowly growing more pronounced. "I learned of ways to hide from Him, although they never lasted very long. I searched for ways to be rid of Him, and when He found me out I paid for my insolence in ways you cannot imagine."  
  
She studied him. For a moment she thought she saw a dull glow near his face. Impossible-- there was nothing in here to reflect a red light onto the black of his mask and robes.  
  
"But He dared not kill me, nor even to completely break me. For He had done that with many of His other minions, and now they were not as useful as He had hoped. As for the other Nazgul, they are all weaker than I am. Together they are not as strong as I am alone. You see, Fuinor cannot not easily cloak his power. Khamul is blind in daylight. I do not have such limitations.  
  
"It had taken Him a long time to get me to claim the ring, and now He did not want to lose me. It angered Him to be in that position, but it gave me some relief. He would not humiliate me before the others, less it impair my usefulness."  
  
She had not been mistaken. A steady glow was forming on his face. It seemed almost to fall where his eyes would be, if she could but see them.  
  
"But He did get his vengeance, in a way that has mattered more to me as time goes on," the King continued, his voice hard and flat. "For He renamed us. Since our own names were bound to the rings and thus could not be used by us, He gave us new ones. Khamul, Herumor, Fuinor, Gothmog--we all were given new names.  
  
"All except me.  
  
"He felt this was a sufficient punishment for being difficult. Names confer power. He wanted me to have less, not more. Without a name, I am only a being whose existence is limited. I am naught but a collection of titles, all searching for a name."  
  
"That is why you cannot tell me your name." She looked up at him. "I thought it might have something to do with magic. I never thought it had been stolen from you."  
  
"He has stolen many things from me."  
  
Ariashal studied the ring. It seemed almost inconceivable that something so small, something so delicate, could contain so much anguish and power. Even the flashes of color within the opal seemed more beautiful than sinister. How could Sauron manage to pervert so lovely a stone? More important, why had it been so crucial for Him to take the King, and make him His own?  
  
He looked down at her.  
  
Gone was the familiar black hood and mask she knew so well. In its place she saw two glowing, seething red coals, where eyes would normally be. Hate, anger, pain--all radiated from the strange glowing orbs.  
  
And for the first time in her marriage, she feared her husband.  
  
"Your eyes!" she screamed, horrified. "They glow!" She fell back to the bed for safety.  
  
"No!" he cried, and to her it seemed a cry of pain.  
  
He turned away from her. Ariashal cautiously heaved herself up, careful not to touch him, or even speak. She could see that his head was bowed, his face buried in his hands. She could make out no sounds save the pounding of her own heart.  
  
After a few moments she could bear it no longer. "My Lord," she began, "are you well?"  
  
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he lifted his head. "I believe so," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

"What happened to your eyes?"  
  
He turned back to her. Ariashal was relieved to see that the glow was gone.  
  
"What happened?" he repeated, dully. "I grew angry, Ariashal. That is what happens when I grow angry. And the last thing I wish to do is to grow angry with you."  
  
"It is all right," she soothed. "I was frightened for a moment, but now all is well."  
  
Slowly he shook his head. "No, Ariashal, it is not all right. For when I am angry I am terrible to cross. And I promise you, nothing would please Him more than to know that I had harmed you."  
  
"I do not fear you," she insisted, sliding close to him. "I fear for you."  
  
"When He had his ring, He could use it to possess us. I had no control of what my body did. All I could do was watch, helplessly, out the window of my eyes while my body obeyed His commands. And then He would withdraw, leaving me alone to face what my corpse had done for Him."  
  
Ariashal shuddered, wondering what it would be like to lose control of even the simplest of movements. No wonder he disliked being at a disadvantage, even in the most innocuous of settings.  
  
And now he was under the control of the opal ring.  
  
A sudden thought came to her as she beheld the golden ring. "My lord, I must ask you something."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Are you--are you ashamed that you claimed the ring?"  
  
"What? What makes you say that?" he snapped.  
  
His tone told her all she needed to know. She had opened a wound that had never healed, could never be healed, and now the pain of her discovery was too much for him. "My lord, you cannot be blamed. You were trying to do--"  
  
"I did not ask you for your opinion!" He snatched the ring away from her. "I will not discuss this with you any longer."  
  
"Why not? Do you fear that I will think less of you for being duped?"  
  
He pulled away from her, and for a moment she feared that the red glow would reappear. She could see that he was struggling to maintain some control, struggling to keep the war that had raged inside for so long from escaping. Something told her that she must not let him get away, must not let him try to win this argument. Stopping now would only make things worse later on. "My lord, I am not trying to ridicule you. You were tricked into claiming it. You would not have done so if you had known its true nature!"  
  
"Ariashal," he began, his voice low. "I am a sorcerer. I should have known its true nature. But I believed Him, and now I am damned."  
  
"No, my lord," she said, taking his hands. "So long as you are loved, you are not damned."  
  
"You do not understand. Twas my pride that let me believe I could master this ring. And it is to my everlasting shame that I did not do so, and did not know I could not. Do you not see this?"  
  
"Sauron deceived the Valar," she soothed. "You acted as a good king. And all good kings are proud, else they are too weak to govern their kingdom."  
  
"Nay, my Queen. I am naught but a fool, and I have paid the price for my weakness a thousand times over. And I will continue to pay, until all Arda ceases to be."  
  
"Nay, my Lord." She stood to face him. "Not a fool. Proud, and arrogant, but no fool. Never a fool."  
  
He slid his hands around her, pulling her close. She could feel him trembling still, as though the strain of the last hour had completely overwhelmed him. As gently as she could Ariashal gathered his head against her breasts.  
  
"See, my lord," she whispered. "I do love you. I will never leave you. And so long as you live, you may yet find a way to break free of the ring. I will do all I can to help you."  
  
He shifted his head slightly. "When I took you as my queen, I had no idea what a source of strength you would prove to be."  
  
She managed a slight smile. "But not love?"  
  
"I told you. That is something of which I must never speak. And neither must you, once this curtain falls. Believe me, Ariashal, I do not think I could bear it should He manage to seize you."  
  
"He has not done so yet, and He never will." She kissed him, slowly pushing him back onto the bed. "But now I see I must prove to you that my feelings are more than mere words."  
  
For a moment he resisted, then drew her to him in a long embrace.  


 

 

 

 

  
  



	26. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

A week passed, then another. Despite the best efforts of the army, Ferion was still at large, lurking somewhere in Middle-Earth. The King was convinced that he had not traveled far, but Ariashal was not so certain. He had made friends with the Cardolani, after all; it did not seem unreasonable to her that he would seek shelter among them now.  
  
"I assure you," soothed the King, "he has not gone far."

They were alone in their bed, not yet ready to dress and face the world. Ariashal curled up against him. "I would feel better if the children were in here. Every day he is free is another day they are at risk."

"I agree with you that Ferion lies in wait." He sat up, careful to avoid hurting her. "But if he can use anything against us, he will; and if he feels he has made us afraid, it will only make him bolder."

She watched as he slipped from the bed. At the end of the bed clothes were gathered from chests and assembled into a human form. Watching him metamorphose from a voice and rush of air into a man was endlessly fascinating for her. He buckled on his sword belt and began to pull on his gauntlets.

"Why can you not stay longer?" she asked, falling back into the pillows.

"Your brother's governance of Rhudaur left a great deal to be desired. I have no choice but to try and make sense of the morass he has bequeathed me. He has spent far more revenue than these lands can possibly produce, and all of it has been to buy war machines from Cardolan."

"Can you not pay the debts and be free of it?"

"Even if Angmar had the resources to do so, I would not pay them. As it is I will be forced to simply cancel the debts which are owed Cardolan."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I will be sending them messages telling them that Rhudaur is not paying them any longer."

She sat up. "But that will anger them! They might declare war!"

"They might, but I doubt it. Cardolan is not much better off than Rhudaur, and since they have been so dependent on Rhudaur for survival I expect that they will quietly slink away."

"If they are so weak," she mused, "perhaps you should simply take them over, too."

He stopped at the door. "I intend to."

 

 

Ariashal made her way down to the pavilion where the children stayed. Every day she came here to supervise their lessons and give Herumor some much-needed rest.

Today they were practicing their letters. Her own children were quite advanced; they knew several different scripts, and had begun to learn other languages. Adrahil and Zimraphel were messy writers, more inclined to get ink on themselves than neatly onto paper; but Imrahil's penmanship was improving rapidly. Ferion's grandchildren, however, were quite backwards. Thabadan was still learning his letters, and Lalwen was still confused by shapes and colors. Ariashal could not believe that Ferion had neglected them so badly.

But then, he seemed to have neglected everything here. The gardens of her youth were unrecognizable; the dilapidated furnishings, now all hauled away by the poorer families; the state of the kingdom's finances--he had let it all go. And for what? From what she could see, he had engaged in a single-minded pursuit of her husband. That had cost him everything.

She watched while the children worked. After an hour she had the tutor stop, so that the little ones could have some relief. Well she remembered the way learning to hold the pen cramped her own fingers!

While they raced about outside, she looked over their work. Imrahil was copying from a history of Numenor; he was working on the story of Tar-Palantir. Adrahil and Zimraphel were engaged in spelling. She could see that Adrahil was having some difficulty with Elven names, while Zimraphel drew little pictures in the margins of her work. Her father had told her that he would not begin teaching her spells until she mastered spelling; and while the spelling was fine, the little pictures told Ariashal that her daughter was bored. She would have to speak with the tutor, so that more challenging work could be found.

Herumor came into the room. "Good day, my queen."

"I thought you were resting."

"Aye, my queen, but the children's laughter woke me."

"I am sorry. I will speak with their nurses at once."

"No, madame. Do not do so. It is not a sound of torment for me."

She looked at him. "Herumor, may I ask you something?"

He stiffened slightly. "I will do my best to answer you, majesty."

"Were you ever married? Did you ever have children?"

She caught the unmistakable sound of a muffled sigh. "No, my queen. I was never so fortunate to have a family of my own."

"I am sorry to hear that. What happened? If--if I may be so bold to ask."

He sighed again, this time not even attempting to hide it. "That is a rather long saga, my queen, and one that is not so easily told."

She recognized the tone. "I am sorry to pry, my lord Herumor. It is merely that I have seen the way you tend the children, and I wondered if you had any of your own."

"I--would prefer not to speak of it today, my queen." He stopped at the curtains to his own room. "But in a day or so, I might be persuaded to speak."

 

  
That night she could barely wait until she was alone with the King. She wished to tell him of the children's progress. But most of all she wished to know about Herumor.

Once he had comfortably settled into his chair, she stood behind him, where she could more easily massage his shoulders.

"To what do I owe this honor, my queen?"

"I spoke with Herumor today."

"And?" he prompted.

"What happened with his family?"

He turned to her. "What makes you think something happened?"

"Because he would not speak of it to me."

He sighed. "Ariashal, there is much about us which you must learn."

She moved to the front of the chair. "Such as?"

"We are not all pleasant."

"I know that," she said.

"And we are not all equally strong."

"I know that, too."

"And our lives are not always easy to discuss."

"This, too, I know."

"Herumor's story is his to tell," said the King. "I would not presume to tell it for him."

"But I do not think he will speak with me."

"That is for your own safety. If--pressure was brought to bear upon him, he would not be able to stand long against it."

"You mean--"

"That is precisely who I mean. Herumor broke once under pressure, and I do not doubt that it would happen again, should that pressure be brought to bear."

"Then is it safe for him to be near the children?" she felt a sudden rush of panic. "Perhaps he should be sent away!"

"No, my queen. So long as Herumor is nearby, while the other lacks His implement of doom, all will be well."

"Herumor depends on you for protection from--Him?"

"He is not the only one. Most of them expect me to stand between them and the--other. It is part of my role as their Lord."

"Then why are they not with you at all times? Why do they stay away?"

"Because I want them to stay away. Most are in the south and the east, where they await my orders. For now I want all to be quiet. As I said before, I cannot afford to have my presence known."

"But Khamul--"

"Khamul and Fuinor are different. They are more comfortable near Him. That is why they lurk in Dol Guldur. I do not want to think on what would happen should we be forced to deal more intimately with them. He would certainly make life difficult for us."

"Why? Why was--why is it so important for Him to have you?"

"If I knew the answer to that, I would not be here now." He gently took her hands in his. "But I will speak with Herumor on your behalf. I will tell him that you can be trusted. And I will only tell him that which is safe for--others--to know, and if he should then choose to unburden himself to you, it will be his decision to make."

"Thank you." She settled onto his lap. "I do not wish to harm him."

"It has been a long time since he has spoken of his life to anyone, my queen. He may well be longing to do so."

"I, too, have longings," she said. As boldly as she dared she pulled him to her in a long, deep kiss. She was so engrossed that at first she did not hear the frantic pounding at the door.

The King pulled away from her. "Enter!"

One of the guards rushed in, panting. "Your Majesty--we are under attack! They have set fire to our tents!"  



	27. Villains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

  
Ariashal bolted for the door. The King caught her from behind. "Not that way. You! Guard!"

"Sire?"

"No one leaves this keep until I give the order. Go!"

The guard saluted and left.

"What are you doing?" shrieked Ariashal. "We must get to the children!"

"Yes, but not that way. The keep is too crowded. Come!"

He led her onto the balcony. Below she could see the parapets and outer walls of the castle, all swarming with soldiers and guards. In the distance the blazing tents lit up the night sky; the shouts of men and whinnying of horses echoed over the field.

"Give me your hand."

"What are you going to do?"

"Give me your hand!"

Uneasy, she slipped her hand in his. He pulled her close to his side, clutching her tight. What was he going to do? They had to get down there, had to see to their children--

He took two long, loping strides, and bounded over the wall.

Ariashal shrieked. They were falling, fast, the ground sliding up to them--she buried her head against his chest, bracing for the impact.

They stopped, inches from the ground. He stepped down, as easily as dismounting his horse. "The stairs would have been too slow," he explained.

Instantly they were surrounded by guards, all desperate to report the latest news.

"Men on horseback...flame arrows... no men hurt ...shot some of them...orcs chasing them...some orcs dead..."

"Catch them if you can," ordered the King. "I want them alive!"

Ariashal, desperate, tried to pull free from his grasp. He held even tighter. "I must go! I must!"

"And be shot by men riding around freely? Nay, Ariashal, you will stay with me. We will see to the children together."

He strode past the guards, Ariashal racing to keep up. At the gate they were met by Adzuphel.

"We have caught one of them," he reported. "So far our casualties are light. Some burns, a few killed. Most of what they burned were the empty tents of the patrols. They rode fast, struck and left. The wolves did not catch the scent until they were almost upon us."

"How are my children?" asked Ariashal.

"I do not know." Adzuphel would not look at her. "But the royal pavilion was the hardest hit of all."

She felt her knees give way; she would have collapsed to the earth had the King not had his arm around her. Her children, all her children, dead...they must be dead. It could not be, it must not be--- it must be a dream, it must be a nightmare, they could not all be dead.

"Take us to them," ordered the King

Ariashal lurched forward, half carried, half dragged by the King. She could not find her feet, could not find the strength to go on. They were gone, all of them, gone, and she knew who was responsible; she knew who had ordered this monstrous thing. Ferion, this was the work of Ferion; he could not face her husband, so he would slay her children.

They stopped. Fearful of what she might see, Ariashal looked up.

The remains of the magnificent black and red silk tent lay collapsed in a heap, smoldering still, the acrid smoke wafting upwind and stinging her eyes. The stench of burned fabric, leather, hair, silk and flesh was overpowering; she fought down the urge to vomit.

People were coming, black against the red glow of the embers.

"Mamma!" shrieked Zimraphel.

Ariashal wiped tears from her eyes. Her children--alive? Yes! There they were, Adrahil running to her, Zimraphel close behind. Their nurse herded Thabadan and Lalwen towards her.

She dropped to her knees, clutched her children to her. Adrahil squirmed a little, but Zimraphel needed the hugging; she was clearly frightened. "Are you two all right?"

"I think so," said Zimraphel. "Imrahil is hurt."

"What? Where is Imrahil?"

"Here, madame," said Herumor.

There, in the arms of the Nazgul, lay Imrahil, an arrow piercing the front of his shoulder.

"What happened?" demanded the King.

"I was reading reports when the first arrows struck." Herumor stopped next to Ariashal. "As soon as I saw the flames, I knew what had happened. I got the children together, as you had commanded, and brought them outside. But Prince Imrahil drew his sword to give chase, and the villains shot him."

"Bring him to our rooms," ordered the King. "I will tend him there."

Ariashal did not move, still clinging desperately to the children.

"Nurse!" he ordered. "Take all the other children to our rooms. Bathe them and ready them for bed. Quickly! I do not want anyone else hurt."

The frightened woman hurried the two Rhudaurian children towards the keep. Adrahil hesitated, then stayed next to his mother.

"Come, my queen. We must get them inside. I will carry them if you wish."

Ariashal reluctantly stood. Adrahil and Zimraphel rushed to their father, clutching him until he swept them both up in his arms. Clinging to him, they rode into the keep safe in his grasp. Ariashal stayed close, trying not to let her emotions overwhelm her.

 

 

Once back in the sanctuary of their rooms, Ariashal turned the children back over to their nurse. They were frightened, yes; but they were unhurt. Imrahil needed her now.

Herumor brought the boy into the antechamber, which the King had been using as a makeshift study. He laid Imrahil upon the table, and stepped back.

Ariashal looked at her eldest son. A grey-fletched arrow protruded from his shoulder. Blood trailed down his chest, soaking his nightshirt. His face was drawn, white beneath the streaks of soot; his eyes were tightly closed. "Is he--"

"I put him to sleep," answered Herumor. "I did not want him to struggle, and make the hurt worse."

The King stripped off his gauntlets. Ariashal watched, fascinated, as the flesh around the shaft dimpled and rolled beneath the invisible fingers. "The arrow went deep into the bone. If it is not cared for, he will never again use this arm properly."

"Shall I get a healer?" asked Ariashal.

"Nay. He will be better off if I tend his wound." He looked up. "Herumor, there is a box of mine on the small table. The black one. Please bring it here."

Ariashal shifted closer. She had never seen her husband do this sort of work. And she desperately wanted to see her son made whole. There was no better place for her to be than at the King's side, no matter how horrible the surgery might be.

He guessed her thought. "It may get painful for you to watch, my queen. You might be better off checking the others. There may be much blood, I fear."

"No," she said, managing to keep her heart quiet. "I will stay for Imrahil."

"Very well."

Herumor returned with the black box. The King opened it, withdrew a small black obsidian knife, some vials of purple and green liquid, and a wad of what looked like blue wool. He closed the box and set it aside.

Some of the purple liquid was poured onto the blue wool. As gently as he could he tucked the wool around the arrow shaft. He held it there for a few moments, singing in a language that sounded vaguely Elven.

"Hold him still, Herumor. I will now withdraw the shaft."

Ariashal bit her lip, buried her nails in the arm of the chair. She could almost feel the arrow being pulled from her son's flesh, could almost feel the muscle and tissue tearing as the head was drawn free.

"It is done."

She looked up. The King held the arrow above Imrahil's chest. Blood dripped onto the table.

"The whole head is there," she said, awed.

"Yes, and thankfully so. I did not want to have to use the knife."

"Will he--will he be all right?" she asked.

"Of course," said Herumor. "Your husband is a skilled healer."

"It will take a few days for the bone to knit, but he will be well soon enough." The King laid the bloody arrow on the table. "Now to see that the wound heals properly."

A skilled healer. Never had she thought of him as such; yet now it began to make some sense. Who else would tend their wounds? They would certainly not want Sauron to do so. It would have to be one of their own, and who better than the King?

She watched as he swabbed the torn flesh with some of the green liquid, blotting the excess with the blue wool. When he was done the wound was still visible, but noticeably smaller; there would be no angry red scar.

"We will need to watch this, but it will not fester. There should be no danger, so long as he rests." With on hand he swept up the soiled wool. "Herumor, please burn this." Herumor took the handful of wool and left.

He put the knife, vials and remaining wool back into the box. "Imrahil needs to sleep, if he is to regain his strength." After closing the box, he took Ariashal's hand. "Come, my queen. He must rest. And so must you, for I know it was harder on you than him."

She looked up at him. "How can I--how can I thank you for saving him?"

He laughed. "He is my son, too. I would not see him suffer."

She clutched his hand, hoping that the grasp told him all she could not say.

Herumor reappeared in the doorway. "Adzuphel is here, sir."

"Good. Tend to Imrahil."

Ariashal followed the King out to the main room. Adzuphel stood there, his face streaked with soot. "Your Majesties, we have caught more of them. Unfortunately most of them have already perished, but one is strong enough to be questioned."

"Very well. Bring him to the throne room. We will be there anon."

 

 

Nervous and angry, Ariashal sat next to the King while the strongest prisoner was brought before them.

He was a young Dunedain man, not quite old enough to marry. Beneath the thin beard his face had the unmistakable roundness of youth. His dark hair was matted with sweat, his clothes stained with dirt and soot; his boots were caked with dried mud.

The guards dragged him in, flinging him to the ground at the foot of the thrones.

"Speak your name," ordered the King.

The young man struggled to regain his feet. Before he could stand, one of the guards pushed him back down.

"I asked you a question, boy."

The young man looked up at them, his blue eyes blazing with hate. Ariashal fought back the urge to race down and attack him. This was the face of the man who had tried to slay her children; yet he was barely more than a child himself. And already he had turned to evil.

One of the guards cuffed the prisoner. "Answer the King."

"Ferion," he mumbled.

"Do not mock me!" cried Ariashal. "I know Ferion, and you are not he!"

"I was named for our rightful king!" spat the prisoner.

"I see," said the King. "You were named for a thief, a murderer, a cheat and a coward. Clearly the name suits you."

"You will die, Witch-King!"

"No, Ferion, I think not. And I think that you are too stupid to tell me anything of value. Obviously anyone with your vaunted name could not be counted upon to keep any information of import."

"My king will return! He will return and he will destroy you!"

"How? By attacking empty tents and children? That will destroy me? Nay, Ferion, I think you overestimate the power and strength of your worthless lord. For I will find him, and I assure you that he will not be returning to the throne of Rhudaur."

"Rhudaur is not yours! We will fight for our freedom forever!"

"You are wrong. Rhudaur is indeed mine. And as for you, since you wish to fight for freedom by burning children in their beds, you will be dealt with forthwith.

"Ferion, hear now my judgement. You will be wrapped in cloth, painted in tar, and hung from the tower. There you will be set alight, that you may burn the way you would have had my children burn. And then you shall indeed be a beacon for those who would follow your path. This is my judgement, and it will now be done."

 

  



	28. The Elf Maid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

For the next several days Imrahil was kept confined to the Royal apartments. The King ordered the rooms originally set aside for Ferion cleaned and repaired, making it suitable for the children. Furniture was removed from other rooms, until a reasonable collection was available.

The destruction of the tent meant that Herumor and Adzuphel were now also reassigned rooms in the main keep. Adzuphel was easily accommodated, but the Rhudaurians were unnerved by Herumor; they found his insistence on absolute silence and darkness in his quarters disquieting. There was the equally disturbing fact that he bore a strong resemblance to the King; they were never quite sure if they were dealing with Herumor or their master. Their confusion amused both Herumor and the King. The King, in particular, found their confusion even more useful with Herumor in the keep than when he was situated in the camp.

The only one not thrilled with the new arrangements was Imrahil. He was not permitted to go anywhere or do anything until his father was convinced that the wound had sufficiently healed. All he was allowed to do was read, do his lessons, or watch his brother practice swordplay.

There was another unfortunate side effect to the injury, at least as far as Imrahil was concerned. News of his valiant attempt to defend the camp while it was under attack spread throughout the castle. Soon various high ranking and notable persons from both Rhudaur and Angmar came to visit him, praising his bravery under fire. To Imrahil's horror, they also brought their daughters along to "visit".

To be sure, there was only so much the girls could do: they were confined to flirting and talk. Even that was too much for Imrahil. After one such encounter with a particularly obnoxious Rhudaurian woman and her stupid daughter, he complained to his mother.

"Why will they not leave me alone?"

Ariashal forced back a smile. "I think they all want to show you how brave they think you are."

"But--they are girls!"

Ariashal could not suppress a smile. "I think, my prince, that there may yet come a day when you will not mind that so much. But if they are really so bothersome, I will order the guards to admit no one."

Imrahil thought for a moment. "No, I guess they can still come. But do they have to act like girls?"

"I will speak to them," she assured her son. "I will tell them not to be so--girly."

Imrahil managed a smile. "I think I would like that."

She gave him a gentle kiss. "I will speak with them. There is no reason for you to be unhappy."

She met Herumor outside the children's room. He had a small collection of books in one hand. "Good day! Are those for the children?"

"They are for Prince Imrahil. He is chafing at his confinement, and I thought that some stories of adventure might be more palatable to him than his usual lessons."

She laughed. "I think so, so long as they do not involve girls!"

"He has been beset by them of late," agreed Herumor. "He is not of an age where their company is desirable. I think Adrahil may be showing an interest, but not Imrahil."

"You do care deeply for them."

Herumor hesitated. "I--I do not have any children of my own, madame. And to speak the sooth, I see a great deal of the King in all his children."

"You can see my children?"

"I seem them as pale ghosts, madame. They are visible to me, but only just. I know that they cannot see me. But they do recall their father at that age. Prince Imrahil is much as he was."

"You knew the King when he was a boy?"

"Well, madame, we are cousins. His mother was my father's sister."

Ariashal's mind reeled. How Sauron must have delighted in capturing two men from the Numenorean royal family!

"If I may take your leave, madame, the prince awaits me. And I do not like to speak of such things openly."

"Of course. If you should decide to tell me more of the King, I will be in my rooms."

Herumor silently slipped through the door.

 

 

Later, back in her own room, Ariashal settled down to embroider leaves on one of Zimraphel's chemises. Zimraphel had decided of late that she wished to be an entwife, and so Ariashal chose to humor her by dressing her in green. The leaves would please her.

Lately she had not had much time for such pursuits. The King had required her help to decipher her father's cryptic handwriting. The archives were being searched, in hopes of unearthing more information about Ferion's investments in war machines. It did not surprise her that her father had wanted to do what Ferion had done. She knew how greatly Turabar coveted land.

But it was disquieting to see the correspondence concerning herself. Reams of letters from every conceivable Dunedain and Mannish land were here, all discussing her future. She had never even heard of half of these places, and some that she did recognize were far away. The tone of the letters ran from polite refusals to outright insults. The King of Gondor would not waste his son on a cursed woman. Neither would the rulers of Dol Amroth, Ithilien, Umbar, Harad--the list seemed never-ending.

She tried not to let the old letters bother her, but the King had seen her discomfort and released her for the day. Ariashal was only too glad to be free of the musty archives, of the memory of her father.

Angry, she stabbed the needle through the cloth. Of all the places her father had contacted, Gondor would have been by far the worst. She knew what would have happened. She would have arrived, the Poor Relation, to the ostentatiously welcoming arms of her southern saviors. Everyone would have fussed over her, openly pitying her for hailing from so miserable a place. And then once the doors were closed, she would be discussed with ridicule and scorn. Her Gondorian husband would be like all the others: too busy for her, too important for her, even--the thought made her swallow hard--even believing himself too good for her.

Though they did not know it, and certainly did not wish it, they had all done her a great favor by spurning her father's offers. Life in Fornost or Minas Tirith with an indifferent Dunedain prince? Compared to life in Carn Dum with the King? The choice was all too easy, even if it was not one her reluctant suitors would understand.

Someone entered the room. She laid aside her embroidery and went to see who had arrived. It was too early for the King; he still had counselors to meet. Perhaps it was one of the children.

Herumor stood just inside the door.

"Oh! I was not expecting you."

"If I am intruding, I can leave."

"No! No, not at all. You are always welcome here."

He quietly shut the door behind him. "I--I do not like discussing our--matters--openly, madame. I find the idea of speaking with--outsiders--difficult."

"I understand." She settled into a chair. "Please, my lord. Sit and speak with me."

He hesitantly picked one of the chairs. "I--do not know how much you have been told, madame."

"Not much, my lord. I know only what you are called, and who has--enslaved you."

She caught a glimpse of the reddish glow beneath the hood.

"Slavery is too kind a term."

"I do not wish to upset you," she said, hurriedly. "You said that you knew the King when he was a boy. What was he like?"

The change of subject seemed to relax him; at least, the glow was gone. "Well, he was, as I said, much like his own children. He was tall and brave like Imrahil, a strong fighter like Adrahil, a scholar like Zimraphel. He was the bane of his parents; they could not keep him from the sorcery which they sometimes feared. It angered his father that he preferred sorcery to the sea. His sister wanted, very badly, to give him the scepter; but their father would not hear of it. And, to say the sooth, I do not know if things would have been better if he had relented."

"Why? Do you think he was not fit to rule Numenor?"

"No, not at all. He would have been a great king. At least his son inherited the scepter, though at the end they were bitter enemies.

"But if there was anyone who must hold his--position, it is best that he does so. For Khamul is the most--loyal--to the Master. And he is quite ruthless. I would not want to have to answer to him, not as my liege lord."

"Why do you not use the King's name?"

"Why? Because it is bound to the ring. Speaking it only increases the ring's hold. By not giving him a new name, the Master has found a check on his power. I promise you that he holds no love for the Master."

"Did you spend much time with him when you were young?"

"We lived at the palace, yes; but I am older than he is, and so I watched him grow. I could see him chafe at the restrictions his father placed on the sorcery. And I could watch while he bested those who chose to spar with him. At the dances and feasts he was always surrounded by people, all of whom expected that his father would relent and he would be king. They wanted to be his friends, you see, so that when he was crowned they would all reap the benefits. But he saw through them. He had a rather disconcerting habit of gazing at those who displeased him, and the power of that gaze was enough to drive even the most aggressive position-seeker away.

"You see, madam, none of his children have inherited his eyes."

"He says they are silver, like the moon."

"Yes, madame, but that does not do them justice. I have never seen anyone with such eyes. It could be quite unnerving to have to hold his gaze, even when there was nothing at stake."

"Is it still?"

"Unnerving? Yes, I suppose. He appears to me much as he did long ago. But he reserves those looks for others. Long has it been since I have been the recipient of one of those gazes!"

"I see." Ariashal stood up. "I must apologize for my hospitality! Would you like some brandy?"

"Aye, madame, that would be comforting."

Swiftly she filled the goblets and brought them back.

"I thank you, madame." Herumor gracefully took the silver vessel from her. "I am fond of brandy."

"So am I." She sipped a little before setting the goblet down. "Did you start a kingdom here, too?"

"Not at first." He took a long sip. "I was originally to help your husband build his own. But he thought that I should have a kingdom for myself. As he put it, there was so much open land, and all of it was waiting to be civilized. So I soon gathered a small force, and rode south into the wilderness."

"And found it full of savages."

"Yes, savages there were. But there were also Elves in the woods."

"Elves?"

"Aye, madame, a small settlement of Elves. They live lightly upon the land, you see; it can be hard to find traces of their homes. They had come because of the Numenorean intrusions. Mostly they came for trade, but I suspect not a little curiosity was involved. They visited a great deal, in the early days. And they advised us as we built a fortress, homes, a kingdom."

He took another long sip of the brandy. "It was not as spectacular a kingdom as your husband's, but I was proud enough of it. We had managed to pacify the Mannish tribe that lived in the valley, and brought them into our kingdom. All was going well."

She sipped from her goblet, expectant.

"A kingdom has many needs, madame. You know many of them yourself. And the most important thing for a ruler to do is to secure the succession. And in this I was a failure, for I had not married."

"Why not?"

"Because I had fallen in love."

"How was this an obstacle? Surely as king you would have ennobled any woman you chose to marry!"

"She was no ordinary woman, my queen. She was an elf." He twirled the empty goblet between his fingers.

"More brandy?"

"I--yes, I think so."

She carefully refilled the goblet. "Why could you not marry the elf? Numenoreans are half- eleven, are they not?"

"We are. But most elves frown on such unions, for the years of men are few, while elves are immortal. Her father, and her family, did not want her to endure the heartache of my death. I might be long-lived, but even the long years of a Numenorean are as nothing to an elf. And so I began a desperate search for something which would prolong my life.

"I sent to your husband, asking if he knew of a spell or a device by which I might be made immortal. He knew of nothing that would help me. And then the Master came."

He took another long draught from the goblet.

"Did he come to you as an elf?"

"As He did your husband? No. He came to me as a Maia. He told me that He had heard of my plight, and that He wished to aid me in any way He could. He told me that He held an Elven Ring of Power, and that if I chose to use it I, too, would be immortal.

"You must understand me, madame. I was suspicious of Him; why, I asked, would one of the Maia offer this gift to me? He said that He was my friend, and that I could trust Him. He knew the young lady in question, and knew she desperately wished to be my wife, despite the objections of her father. But I must not speak to her of Him; she must not know of His existence.

"I managed to steal away and meet my lady in private. She wished to marry, and indeed wished to consummate it at once, beneath the trees. But I feared that her father might use this as an excuse to attack me. And I did not want her to be estranged from her family, since we both knew she would greatly outlive me.  
  
"So I told her that someone had offered me a magic ring.

"She grew quiet at this, then angry. Was it not enough, she said, that she loved me? Why did I need this ring? She remounted her horse and rode away, leaving me confused.

"That night He came to me again. He said He had seen the two of us together. And He knew why she grew angry about the ring. It had been made for Elves, you see, so the idea of a Man wearing it upset her. But once she found that it prolonged my life, all would be well. And her father would approve, too. For it would be by Elven work that this was made possible. I would be using their own work to obtain what they had as a birthright. What could they object to? He was only speaking as my friend. He only wished to help.

"I thought about it for days. The longer I thought on it, the angrier I grew. Why should the elves deny me? I was a king. With this ring, I would be immortal, and they could no longer say that I was inferior for suffering mortality. Their daughter would not have to endure loss or grief; I would not die."

He slowly twirled the goblet. "And He was now my advisor and friend. He came to me daily, helping with my counselors and advising me on the best course of action to take. At His urging I began to wear the ring to my meetings with the counselors, and I was able to perceive who spoke truthfully and who did not.

"And I saw that, regardless of what they said in my presence, many of them did not discount the notion of seizing the elf lady by force for me. They resented the Elves, resented their immortality, their abilities, even, I think, their beauty. And while I admit harboring some resentment against them, I did not think it entirely my place to attempt to redo what the Valar had done.

"But my Maia friend told me that I should really go and see the lady. I should take her in my arms, and speak with her, as she herself wanted me to do. For did she not beg me to consummate our union? Did she not wish us to be made one flesh? I was not only denying myself, I was denying her as well.

"The more I thought on it, the more I knew He was in the right. She did want me; she did long for me; I did need a queen. All I had to do was claim the ring as my own, and all would be well."

Ariashal poured herself some more brandy. "Would you care for more?"

"I--yes, I suspect that would be wise."

"You do not need to continue, if you do not wish." She carefully refilled his goblet.

"Nay, madame. It has been a long time since I have spoken of this, though I think of it daily." He studied the goblet. "This is my penance, to think on this daily."

She settled back into her chair.

"I finally decided I would, indeed, claim the ring as mine. I told some of my close advisors that I was going to try and retrieve my bride, while I could. I left my city and rode to the elves."

He stopped, staring down into the brandy. "I--I met Him there, in a clearing. He told me the elves were aware of us, and suspicious about my motives. But if, He said, I claimed the ring, I would be invisible to them, and I could freely walk among them until I found my lady.

"And so I put it on, and spoke my name."

He swallowed, hard; she could hear that his voice was close to breaking. "I--I felt as if my heart was ripped free of my body. I did not know what had happened. But He told me that all was well, that what I felt was the effect of the spell which would make me invisible. I knew only a little sorcery, not nearly as much as I know now, and so I believed Him.

"I--I went into their village of trees, and there I espied her, sitting alone by a stream. I came up behind her, and whispered that she must follow. She could not see me; I think she thought it was a trick. But she did follow my voice. I led her away from the others, to a quiet glade where we had often spoken. There I revealed myself to her.

"She was horrified. She hated that I had claimed the ring, saying I had damned myself for nothing. She said she knew what the ring was, and that it should be destroyed.

"That made me angry, in a way in which I had never felt anger before. Had she tricked me? I demanded that she tell me what she knew about the ring, but she would not. All she did was try to escape, crying, calling me evil.

"I told her I had claimed it for her, that I loved her, that this way we could stay together; but she would not hear of it. She said I had betrayed her. How? How could I do so, when all I did was for love of her?"

Herumor set the goblet down.

"I grew so angry with her." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I did something then that I would never have done before. I--I flung her to the ground, and there I forced myself upon her."

Ariashal kept her silence.

"Do you know--do you understand--what that will do to an elf?" He reclaimed the goblet. "I watched her eyes. She would not look at me. She stared into the distance, and then she--she died. They cannot stand grief, and certainly not the grief that comes when such a thing is inflicted upon them. She died with me still over her, with me still demanding that she love me."

He drained the goblet.

"My Maia advisor appeared, out of nowhere. He said that she would have betrayed me, that I could not trust her. And I had to leave, now, lest her family find her. And so I buried her beneath a few rocks, where she would not be found for some days.

"He told me that, if I followed him, He would help me find a way to revive her. And like a fool I believed. At that moment I would have done anything. And so He told me that, if I bound myself to Him, I would be helped. All I need do was bind myself to Him, my kingdom to the worship of Him.

"I do not need to tell you the rest."

For several moments they sat in silence while she groped for the right thing to say. No matter what she said or did, it would be hopelessly inadequate. But she knew she must try. "I do not know what to say."

"Say, madame? There is nothing you can say!"

"But, my lord," she soothed, "I know you. And I know you would not have deliberately harmed her. It was--the other who made you do this thing."

"That is what I have told myself every day since. And it does not help overmuch to know that my weakness and jealousy destroyed the fairest creature I have ever beheld. If I had been strong, she would have lived, and I would have died, all in the natural order of things. But she is dead, and I am unnaturally alive. And never can I forget that."

He stood to go. "I am sorry to have bothered you, madame. I know that your own troubles are here and now, while mine are long past."

"If you are still troubled, it is due to a wound that has never healed."

"Nay, madame. This will never heal, nor should it." He sighed. "The King is most fortunate to have you, for you are ever willing to listen without passing judgement. Long has it been since I have spoken freely with one who did not fear me."

"I do not fear any of you."

"That is only because you have not dealt with all of us. I promise you that Khamul is no friend to your husband. If he could, Khamul would kill him for the title of Lord. Fuinor is not a friendly man, either. Gothmog and the others--they depend on our lord for guidance and protection. Should anything befall him, I fear what we would become."

"But your master--"

"He lives, yes, and so long as He lives, He has some control over us. But the farther we are from Him, the weaker He is. He cannot easily reach over mountains." Herumor opened the door. "I will go and see how Imrahil is coming with his reading. I thank you again, madame, for having the patience to listen to me."

"I am always ready to lend an ear to those in need."

"Yes," he said quietly, "and to those whose needs are greatest. Good evening, madame."

 

 

Ariashal could not escape Herumor's story. For a long while after he left she sat by the window, embroidery in hand, staring out over the distant fields. She could see the empty area where the great tent had stood; all the debris had been cleared away. There was nothing to show that the tent had ever been: only charred earth and some ash remained.

And so, she thought, it was with Herumor.

All that was left of him was a charred soul, living vicariously through her and the King, forever repentant, forever unable to be more than a shadow. The King's desire to be a good ruler, and his pride in his strength, had brought him down; Herumor had fallen because of love. What, she wondered, were the stories of the others? Had they all had virtues perverted into damnation?

"You are lost in thought."

Startled, she turned to see the King standing behind her. "I--I did not hear you enter."

"I was quiet, for I thought you might be resting after this morning." He settled next to her. "I will need to beg a boon of you later, my queen. We have found more of your father's papers, and these seem even more indecipherable than the last."

"Of course." She set aside her embroidery. "Shall we go to work now?"

"Now?" He chuckled. "Nay, my queen, I wish to be with you first."

She let him hold her, let him kiss her, let him nuzzle at her neck. He suddenly stopped.

"Your mind is elsewhere."

"I--" there was no way to escape him; he knew her too well. "I was thinking of Herumor."

"Herumor! Have I now a rival for your affections?"

"What? No! Never!" She clung to him, burying her head against his chest. "No, my lord."

"Really."

She caught the slightest sound of mirth, the barest whisper of a laugh.

"Herumor spoke with me, and told me much of his tale."

"I see." He took her hands in his. "I think that is only what a lady says when she wishes to hide the truth from her husband."

There was no mistaking the mocking tone now. "Perhaps you have been too involved with accounts, so that I must seek company elsewhere."

"Ha! I knew I would get the truth from you!"

This time she eagerly returned his kiss.

 

 

Afterwards, stretched across the great bed, her mind again turned to Herumor. She propped herself up on pillows, the better to speak. "My lord, what do you know of Herumor?"

"What do I know of him, or what do I know of what he did?"

"I--both."

"Well, madame, as I am certain he enlightened you, we are cousins. I am also certain he regaled you with tales of my misspent youth. But I do not think that those are the things which trouble you."

"No, my lord."

"You are curious about the elf."

"Yes." She laid one had on his chest.

"She was not a happy queen."

"What?" She sat up, startled. "I though she died!"

"Indeed she did, for that is the way of elves. They do not suffer torture or rape well. But the pact was kept."

"You mean--He _revived her_?"

"Oh, yes. And no elf likes being brought back from the Halls of Mandos. She spent many years longing for the sea. Herumor had his elf, but he had only her body; she was no better than a sad, walking corpse."

"He never mentioned that."

"I am not surprised. He has never forgiven himself."

"What happened to her?"

"One night she simply left. He believed she left for the sea. All I know is that she was no queen to him; I do not think they even consummated the marriage. I think the knowledge that she was the cause of Herumor dedicating his entire kingdom to evil did little to ease her pain. For I do believe that, when first they met, she did indeed love him.

"But by the time she left, Herumor was almost completely under His sway. She was nothing to him any longer, not even so much as a name. Everything he had, he gave to his Master."

"And all for her," whispered Ariashal.

"We all were the instruments of our damnation, madame. For he offered us all that which we wanted most, and we took it. And for that we have paid the price. As I have told you. I fought. I fight still. And, truthfully, I do not know many men who would have been able to resist what was offered Herumor."

"Could you?"

He was silent a moment. "I would sooner slay you with my own hand than see you submit to Him. For I do not think I could bear having you taken by Him." He pulled her close, hugging her tight against his chest. "Nay, my lady queen," he whispered, "I know I could not."  


 

 

 

 

  
  
  
  
  



	29. Khamul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

The search for Ferion continued unabated. Agents of the King went from house to house, searching every place where the missing prince might hide. They found some caches of food, a few mad relatives, and some escaped slaves; but of the runaway prince there was no sign. The searchers fanned out into the countryside, looking in barns and wells, mines and mills. A few of his supporters were discovered, lurking in an abandoned barn. They were brought to swift justice. But Ferion himself eluded them.

Ariashal tried to concentrate on her father's handwriting and not on the continuing menace of her brother. Most of his accounts were in reasonable condition, which meant that it was possible to trace the payments listed. But Ferion's accounts were an entirely different matter. There was a disturbingly large amount set aside for "exigencies", which she took to mean bribes. The King concurred. "Your father was a shrewder judge of the situations in of Cardolan than Ferion ever hoped to be. He knew he could only deal with them by force."

"Why, then, did Ferion try to buy them?"

"Because he is a coward, my queen. He knew he could not best them in battle, and so he sought to bring them to his side in a war against me. But as you have seen yourself, the Cardolani are only too willing to let him bear the brunt of any such action."

"Perhaps he is hiding within Cardolan now."

"That would seem likeliest. Cardolan does not want me as a neighbor, certainly not as a neighbor in residence. They will be much happier when we return to Carn Dum."

A thought came to her. "Perhaps you should make such an offer to them. Tell them you will retreat to Carn Dum, in exchange for Ferion."

He tapped the table. "There is merit in your idea. I fear, though, that the King of Cardolan is not the one sheltering Ferion, and so would be of limited use. And I do not want to encourage any beliefs amongst the Cardolani that we can be so easily persuaded. Still, it might be a good trinket to dangle before them. Let us think on it tonight."

 

 

That evening there was some real entertainment: some of the soldiers, skilled at juggling, put together a clever, diverting act for the Royal family. Imrahil was well enough to attend, and he was thrilled to be free of his room. He was also thrilled that his mother had kept her word, and spoken to the women of the court: no young ladies even looked at him.

Once they were alone in their rooms, Ariashal settled down to embroider. The King had a late meeting with Adzuphel concerning reports from the scouts, and she did not wish to intrude. From what she heard she gathered that there was still no sign of Ferion, even though their scouts had covered a considerable amount of ground in the hunt.

There was a knock at the door. "Enter," said the King, not looking up from his reports.

Herumor slipped into the room. "My lord," he said, in a voice so low Ariashal could barely hear him, "Khamul has arrived."

"Khamul?" The King did not sound pleased.

"Yes. He flew his beast to the very top of the keep. I told him that you did not wish for the beasts to be here, and he laughed. He said he will see you now, before you retire."

"That is not what I said."

Ariashal looked up.

Next to Herumor stood what she guessed was Khamul. He was robed in black, as were the others. But while he was not nearly as tall as Herumor, he was considerably more heavily built. She could not help noticing the long, curved sword he wore, nor the armored gauntlets that glinted dully in the light.

"I think I had best retire," said Adzuphel.

"You do that, little mortal," said Khamul.

"You will not order my men about." The King's voice was firm. "Adzuphel, you may be dismissed, if you wish. Otherwise I have no objection to your presence."

"I--no, my King, I think it best that I go."

"Very well. You may leave then, and we will speak again on the morrow."

Ariashal watched as Adzuphel disappeared out the door.

"So." Khamul strolled into the room. "You have come down in the world, my friend. There was a time when you would not have chosen so--rustic--a place."

"Do you have anything of import to say, or did you come this far to insult my house?"

"I came to see how you fare. Where is the woman?"

"My wife is here. Come, Ariashal, and meet Khamul, the Easterling."

Ariashal quickly went to her husband's side. "My lord Khamul," she said as graciously as possible, "I bid you welcome to Rhudaur."

"I did not ask her to speak. Have you never taught your women respect, Morgul-Lord? Or do you always let her speak?"

"Ariashal is my wife and queen. She is her own woman. We never were able to prevent you savages from treating women like chattel."

Khamul's eyes blazed into light. For a moment his fingers strayed to the hilt of his sword.

"Consider the King's reputation," warned Herumor. "You would not be the first of us to fall to him in combat."

Khamul glanced at Herumor, then released the sword.

"Why are you here, Khamul?" asked the King.

"I bring you a message. You are much missed by the Master. He would very much like to have you at his side."

The King was silent for a moment. "You have journeyed far, Khamul. There are rooms here where you may stay for a few days while I consider the answer I will give."

"Very well." Khamul's eyes had dulled to a red glow. "I accept your hospitality. We will speak again."

 

 

  
That night the King would not come to bed. Ariashal tried to coax him, but he refused. Obviously the arrival of Khamul bothered him, and he would not tell her why. She knew that he wanted nothing to do with Dol Guldur and its dark master. He must be trying to come up with a way of telling that to Khamul without provoking attack.

Finally she went to him, padding softly across the floor.

"You should be abed, my queen."

"As should you." She stood behind him. "You will need strength to deal with Khamul."

"Khamul is not at his best during the day. The sunlight blinds him."

"Perhaps that would be a good time to speak with him."

"Possibly, though his other senses are heightened."

"Why do you think he is here?"

"I do not know. But I want you to stay either with me, Herumor or the children at all times while he is here. And under no circumstance is Khamul to see the children."

She felt a sudden chill. "Do you think he would harm them?"

"I do not wish him to be given that chance." He gently kissed her hand. "You must rest, my queen. Khamul will be a difficult guest, and you will need your strength."

 

Khamul spent the next few days prowling about the castle. Ariashal stayed away from him, letting Herumor and her husband shepherd him about. She spent most of time in with the children, embroidering or reading to them. The King told Khamul that they were abed with the grippe, a common childhood illness. They were, he said, too ill for visitors. Their mother was supervising their convalescence. If Khamul suspected the ruse, he gave no sign.

She stayed until it was time for dinner, when Herumor took up the task. He seemed relieved to be in with the children instead of guiding Khamul.

"I hope they will not be difficult," she said, more as a warning to them than anything else.

"They are never tiresome," said Herumor. "I find their company a great relief after the cares of the day. Their questions are innocent."

She nodded and left, surrounded by guards. They did not make her feel secure.

 

 

Khamul had been there for several days when the first sure sighting of Ferion was reported.

Adzuphel sent word that he had some men who wished to see the King on urgent business. He questioned the men, and when he was satisfied that they were speaking the truth, he ushered them into the presence of the King.

Ariashal looked up from her transliteration. Five men, suntanned and strong, stood before the table; from their rough clothes and heavy builds she guessed they must be laborers. Adzuphel spoke first.

"Your Majesty," he began, "this is Ban, a master stonemason. He did much of the new work on this keep. He has some important news for Your Majesties."

"I see. Welcome, Master Ban. Tell me--what is this important news?"

Ban, the oldest of the men, shifted uneasily, "Well, Your Majesty, it was like this. See, I rebuilt all these walls here in the keep, and I saw the old King Ferion most every day. He was always wanting me to make things stronger, see.

"Anyways, this morning me and my boys was working on the little bridge what connects us to the road to Bree. And then I seen old King Ferion, big as day. Dressed like a huntsman, he was, him and five or six others. They was all headed for Bree, they was."

"You are sure of this?"

"Oh, yes sir, I am. I seen him near every day working on this here keep, and he didn't have the kind of face a man could forget easy."

"And they were on the road to Bree."

"Well, like I said, that was the way they was heading. Course they might have cut across country, or left the road. But that was what we all saw."

The King was silent for a moment. "You men have done well. It was good of you to come here. Take this." He pulled a small purse from his robe, and poured the contents onto the table. Coins, most of them gold, flowed out. "This should reward you well for your diligence."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Ban the Stonemason carefully took the purse. He swept the coins back inside, and rejoined his fellows.

"Again, all of you have done well. Should you learn anything more, do not hesitate to come to me."

Adzuphel herded the men from the room.

"He is closer than I thought," said the King. "With some luck we will have him by morning."

The men had no sooner left than Khamul and Herumor entered the room.

"I could not help but overhear your conversation with your subjects," said Khamul smoothly. "While I am here, permit me to offer our help in locating your missing prince. Dol Guldur offers all of its powers, should you need them."

"I want nothing from Dol Guldur."

"Indeed. Your absence has been marked, my lord. And yours, too, Herumor Shadow-lord. There are some of us who know who our true master is, and where our loyalties best lie."

"Dol Guldur holds no charm for me," said Herumor.  
  
"Nor am I overly enamored of it." The King's voice was hard. "As for true believers, it is my understanding that there are but two of you."

Khamul's eyes flared into bright flame. "We are the loyal, and the rewarded."

"Or the weak and unfortunate." Herumor drifted over, flanking the King.

"You grow bold here, Shadow-lord. Perhaps if you had shown some of that boldness in the past, you would not be so pathetic now."

"Silence, Khamul," warned the King. "Long have I enjoyed the absence of your voice and jealousy. You are here unbidden. If your only interest is to see how we fare, you have seen for yourself that all is well."

"Indeed. The former king runs freely across the lands, and yet you say all is well. I suppose that you would consider that an improvement over his unwanted company." Khamul sounded almost mischievous. "But let us not speak of such things now. The hour is late, and I must needs retire. Until tomorrow!" He left the room, Herumor following close at his heels.

 

 

  
  



	30. The Round Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

Ariashal awoke.

She was not in her bed; she was lying on a hard, cold, stone floor of what seemed to be a passageway. There was no light, save a dim glow coming through a partially-opened door down at the end of the long, stone hall. Uneasy, she got to her feet and began walking towards the light.

As she grew closer she could see that there was a room beyond the door. Illuminated by the sickly yellow light were chains, racks, spiked tables. Once she was at the door, she carefully peered inside.

The room itself was round, with no windows, nor any other doors that she could see. In addition to the chains and racks, she saw several types of shackles attached to the walls. A pool of what she suspected was blood puddled in the middle of the floor. Almost directly opposite her was a bizarre construct of horizontal bars, set at different heights; shackles dangled from these as well.

Hanging above the blood, suspended by his wrists from a heavy chain, was a naked man. He had been gagged and blindfolded, and his feet chained together.

Frightened, sickened, she drew closer. He was a tall man, tall and powerfully built. Heavy black hair, matted with sweat and blood, fell over his face and shoulders. He had been flogged, and from the blood still dripping down his back she guessed that the flogging had been quite recent. At a distance it was impossible to tell if he was still alive.

Who was he? What had he done to deserve such torture? Slowly, uneasily, she made her way towards him.

As she drew nearer it was possible to make out slight movements; he still lived. She could also make out scars across his back, legs, buttocks. This was not the first time he had been subjected to this treatment. How long had he been hanging here? She glanced up at his bloodied wrists.

 

A sudden, horrific freezing seized her heart, squeezing all blood away.

 

On his right hand was a massive black opal ring.

"No!" She managed, barely, to keep from collapsing to the floor. She ran to him, desperate to find a way to free him, to cut him from the bonds.

"My lord," she sobbed, wrapping herself around his still-bleeding legs, "What happened? Who did this to you?"

He did not move, or indeed make any sign that he was even aware of her presence.

Frantic, she grasped the chains wrapped around his ankles. They had been welded shut; there was an ugly dark patch on his skin where the flesh had been seared by the hot iron. She had nothing, nothing at all, that would allow her to break the chain. Desperate, she looked around the room. There must be some tools somewhere, must be something she could use to cut him free--

Behind her, the door slammed shut.

Ariashal whirled around.

Standing by the now-closed door was a man, or rather, a man-shaped blackness. Its blackness seemed almost to be alive; it swirled and eddied, the light casting strange patterns over its surface. "Hello, little queen," said a soft, silken voice.

"Who are you?" she demanded. "What have you done to my husband?"

The figure did not answer. Instead it made its way towards her, coiling and seething across the room as though it were made of oily black smoke. Instinctively she backed away.

"Your husband," purred the voice. "Your husband has been--disobedient."

Some of the smoky mass pulled away from the body, forming itself into wispy, clawed hands. It laid its fingers along the King's flanks.

"Leave him alone!" she cried fiercely.

"Oh, no. That I cannot do. I cannot leave him alone." The hands slipped over the King's body, leaving ugly red welts in their wake. "He is a magnificent physical specimen, is he not? Look at these shoulders! Look at this chest! The strongest of all my servants."

The smokey thing's voice had taken on a tone of admiration. She watched as it changed size, growing tall enough to stand face to face with the hanging King. "My pretty, pretty Numenorean," it said, lingering close enough to his face to have kissed him. "The noblest of all my conquests."

She realized, horrified, who the thing was. " _Sauron_ ," she whispered.

"Yes?" The smoky mass of Sauron turned towards her. "What do you wish, my little queen?"

"What do I wish?" Her heart pounded as though it would break free. "I want you to let him go!"

Sauron laughed, a sound far more horrific than mirthful. "I cannot do that, sweet Ariashal. He is mine. Do you know how long it took me to find him? Do you know how many years I _searched_ for him? He is everything I wanted. He is a prince, and a sorcerer, and a general. Everything I wished for." Clawed hands slipped across the King's body. "Well. Almost everything."

Without warning, the clawed hands were gone. In their place was a slim, fiery whip. Sauron drew it back, then slashed, hard, across his victim's chest. Fresh blood welled from the sliced flesh. "You have to be defiant, when all I wish is for your company. But no, you must run away, and defy me at every turn!" The flaming whip struck again. "You would lead the others against me, if you could! I cannot trust you! My greatest weapon, and I cannot trust you will not attack me!"

Again and again the whip struck. Blood spattered into the air.

"Stop it!" Ariashal screamed. She managed to reach the King, to throw herself in front of the searing whip. "Leave him alone!"

"You are brave, little queen." The flogging ceased. "Very well."

"Let him go!"

"I told you," purred Sauron, "he is mine to do with as I will."

"No!" She glared at the seething mass of smoke. "Give him to me!"

Sauron laughed. " _Give_ him to you? Give _him_ \--to you?"

"Yes!" she shrieked.

"Very well." He stepped back. "I will _give_ him to you."

Without warning the chains disappeared. The King dropped, limp, into a bloody heap.

Ariashal frantically went to work, struggling to untie the gag and blindfold. Somehow she would have to get him to his feet; she could not possibly move him in this condition. "I will have you free," she murmured, wiping away her tears. "You will be free soon."

"There is-- _one_ thing--I would have of you."

Ariashal looked up. Sauron had retreated a little, watching her with what she felt was some sort of twisted amusement.

"I want you to give me something, in exchange for--your husband."

"What?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sauron waved his hand.

In front of him appeared Imrahil, Adrahil and Zimraphel, still sound asleep.

"Your children."

"No! NO!!!"

"Ariashal!"

Strong hands caught her arms.

Ariashal looked up. The round room, the bloodied King, the sleeping children, Sauron--all had vanished. She was back in her bed, back in Rhudaur, and the King was holding her.

"Twas only a dream," he soothed. "You are well and safe here."

"No," she sobbed. "He wanted--he wanted our children!"

"Who?"

"Sau--Sauron."

"No." The King pulled her tight against his chest. "He cannot have them. Ever. Now--tell me this dream."

"It was--there was a round room, and chains, and--my Lord, he was--he was torturing you." She managed to describe the events of the dream, although every now and then her tears forced her to stop; she finished with the appearance of the children in the torture chamber.

When she was finally done, the King was silent for a moment. "Are you able to dress yourself, or shall I call some of your women?"

She managed a sniffle. "I--I think I can dress myself."

"Very well. It need be nothing elaborate." He slipped from the bed and moment later the door to the outer corridor opened. "Guard, bring me the lords Herumor and Khamul. Immediately!"

He returned to her side, gathering her to himself. "I suspect that Khamul has been trying to pry into your dreams, my queen. He knows he cannot do so to me, and so he has tried to violate you. I promise you he will never do so again."

Ariashal looked up at him. She could see the reddish glow of his eyes, and somehow that was comforting. "My lord," she asked, still shaking, "does Sauron--does he have such a round room? With chains and racks?"

He breathed in deeply. The glow was much brighter now. "Yes."

Ariashal knew she did not need to ask about the rest. Instead she buried her face against him, crying.  
  


 

 


	31. Questioning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

 

Dressed in one of her simple blue gowns, Ariashal waited with the King for the other Nazgul to arrive. Silently he stalked the room, only sitting next to her when the others finally came. She was uncertain of what her husband intended to do, but she did not need to see his face to know that the evil glow had come to his eyes.

Herumor was first into the room, followed by Khamul. Ariashal got the very distinct impression that Khamul was annoyed; certainly there was already a faint glow hovering about his eyes. Herumor quietly sidled over until he was next to Ariashal.

When they had entered, the King motioned to the door. It slammed shut. He held up one hand, speaking in the same harsh tongue he always used for casting spells. Soon the glowing yellow mesh lined the room, giving off a faint hum. In an instant it vanished, but Ariashal knew it was still in place.

"On your knees, Khamul," ordered the King.

The Easterling stood, defiant.

The King made a quick movement with one hand, and Khamul collapsed to the floor. For a few moments he struggled vainly to regain his feet, then lay still, eyes ablaze with hate.

"Why are you here--really?"

Khamul said nothing.

"Do not make this more difficult for yourself than it already is. Why were you sent here?"

"I told you," hissed Khamul. "I was sent to see how you fare."

Slowly the King closed one hand into a fist. Khamul's breathing became increasingly harsh, first ragged, then gasping. As Khamul fought for breath, he slowly lifted off of the floor, finally hovering several feet in the air. For what seemed an eternity the King kept his fist clenched. Finally he opened his hand. Khamul dropped hard to the ground, gulping for air.

"Why were you sent here?"

"I--" gasped Khamul between breaths, "He wanted--He wanted to see how you--how you were--how you fared."

The King raised his hand and began to close it back into a fist.

"No!" rasped Khamul. "No. I--I will tell you--I will tell you what He wants." He managed to sit up, panting.

"Well?"

Khamul held up one hand. "He--sent--me--He sent me to--to see how--to see how you fare."

The King crushed his hand into a fist. Khamul flopped back onto the ground, wheezing.

"Did He send you here to insult me?"

"No--no--"Again Khamul's body lifted free of the floor.

"Did He send you to attack my queen?"

Without warning he released Khamul. Again the Easterling hit the floor hard, driving the air from his lungs with an audible _whoosh_.

"I--I tell you--I tell you He wanted to see--"

Khamul never finished the sentence. The King made a quick gesture, and Khamul slammed against the wall.

"He knows well enough how I fare. Why are you here?"

Khamul scrambled to his feet. "He wants--He wants to make you--make you a proposition."

A flick of the King's wrist, and Khamul hurtled into the opposite wall.

"Listen!" gasped the Easterling. "He wants to give you--to give you-- your freedom."

"Give? He gives nothing! What does He want?"

"I speak--I speak the truth, Morgul-lord. He says--He says that-- that He will give you your freedom."

"In exchange for what?"

Khamul half-coughed, half-laughed. "He wants--He wants your woman, and--and your offspring. You-- you give Him those, and you--you will be free."

The King snapped his fingers. Khamul rocketed to the ceiling, crashing head-first into the painted wood. Dust and plaster rained down onto the floor. "He wants no such thing!" hissed the King. "He would never ask for that. No, it is you who would take them, not Him."

Khamul plummeted to the ground. For a moment he lay still, so still Ariashal wondered if he were dead.

"Rise, Khamul!" ordered the King. "Tell me why you are here."

Slowly, stiffly, Khamul sat up. "He--He wanted to know--He wanted to know if--if what He had heard was true."

"Which was?"

Khamul managed to look up, eyes blazing crimson. "He had heard--He had heard that you were--that you are very fond of your woman."

"What makes Him think that?"  
  
Ariashal felt her heart stop. _What makes Him think that?_ Was she in truth of no import at all to her husband?

"It is--it is obvious, Morgul-lord," rasped Khamul. "Never--never are you far from her. She is with you always-- here, in these rooms. You give her --you give her anything she wishes. And you have--you have her constantly under guard."

"And wisely so, if you are spying!"

"Wisely?" Khamul lurched unsteadily to his feet. "Wisely? You have--you have--you have _him_ here!" he cried, pointing at Herumor. "I would not let him--near-- near any of my women! Not after what he did."

"Only because you would long to do it yourself!" Herumor drew his sword. "Come for me, Khamul. I will gladly avenge my late wife."

"Wait," ordered the King.

"He obeys you?" taunted Khamul. "What do you give him--to keep-- to keep him away from her? Your--your daughter? Or--do you--do you share your woman?"

Suddenly Khamul slammed against the wall. "My patience with you is at an end," warned the King.

"What--what will you do to me, pretty--pretty Numenorean?" Khamul did not move from the wall. "He sent me--He sent me to recall you. He misses--He misses his pretty Numenorean. And now--now you can provide Him--a whole-- a whole family of pretty--pretty Numenoreans. He wonders if--He wonders if your wife is as sweet --as sweet a lover as you. Perhaps--perhaps He wishes to--to sample the two of you at once, so that--so that He may choose who--who gives the greater pleasure!"

"My Lord," said Herumor, tightening his grip on the hilt, "let me slay this faithless dog where he stands!"

"You, Shadow-Lord?" sneered Khamul. "You--you will join him! And we--and we will--I will gladly watch--while our master tries you all, to see--to see which of you--is--is the sweetest!"

Once again Khamul hurtled to the floor.

The King stood, towering over Khamul. "You will leave now, fool," he hissed, voice like steel. "Leave now, alive, lest I do what my lord Herumor suggests and slay you where you stand. There are many better candidates for that ring you wear."

"You would--you would not dare!" gasped Khamul.

"Have you heard nothing? I have slain my companions before, and I will do so again. And your master is not here to protect you. Doubtless He would not care. He never has before."

Khamul managed to sit up. "I--I came to warn you, Morgul-lord. You may take the help of Dol Guldur, or--"

"Or what?" demanded the King. "Else you will aid the missing king? Else you will send an army to my borders? And a sad army it will be, with you at their head. Never could you hold your own, without the rest to help you. You do not have our aid now, Khamul. You have nothing!"

"I will--I will report your defiance, Witch-King. I will--I will tell Him!"

"If He is too stupid to know that I defy Him," snapped the King, "then He is indeed more pathetic than I suspected. Go, and report to your slave-lord that we have no need of His aid!"

"One day--one day He will regain His full powers," hissed Khamul, "and on that day--on that day I swear I will watch Him break you!"

"He could not do so before," said the King. "He cannot do so now. You, however, are easily broken, and if you do not leave, you will be easily slain. Am I understood?"

"Oh, yes,--yes, you are. And I wonder--when did--when did you last see--your daughter?"

Horrified, Ariashal sprang to her feet. Herumor caught her and held her back.

Without warning, Khamul slammed headfirst into the wall. Again and again his head and body were smashed into the stone, until blood ran freely down the wall. At last the King relented, leaving Khamul heaped in a pool of his own blood.

Ariashal stared at the still form. "Is he--"

"No," said the King, hard. "I will not kill him now. Herumor! Watch him while we see to our children."

Ariashal started for the door.

"Not that way," said the King. "Come to me."

She sidled up to him. He slipped one arm around her waist and spoke aloud.

Ariashal had the strange sensation that the very stone and wood of the castle was parting for them, opening just wide enough to permit them to pass. In only seconds they were standing in the children's rooms.

She rushed to Zimraphel. The King stood back, muttering something she could not quite hear. After a moment he joined her. "I think she is well," said Ariashal, relieved.

"He was unable to break the spell I had laid over this room," explained the King quietly. "He tried, but he is far too weak to prevail against me."

"What will you do with him now?"  
  
"Tie him on his beast and send him home."

"But--"

"The beast knows the way," said the King. "By the time he reaches Dol Guldur, he will be awake. Come. We must return to Herumor."

This time she was expecting the strange opening of the floor, and the parting of the wood. Still, it was unsettling to move up through the ceiling and floor, finally stopping in their own chamber.

Herumor stood over Khamul. Ariashal could see that the toes and tops of his boots were bloody.

"I thought he stirred," explained Herumor.

"We need to ready his beast," said the King. "But first, I wish to teach him a lesson."

The King pulled the glove from Khamul's hand. Ariashal could not see what he was doing, but alongside her she could Herumor gasp, horrified, at what was happening. She saw the King draw one of his daggers, the golden hilt flashing in the light. There was a sudden spurt of blood onto the floor.

"You did not take his ring?" asked Herumor.

"No. Only the first digit of the ring's finger. When he wears gauntlets, no one will know it is gone--save us."

"But--what will he do?" asked Ariashal. "He will be angry, and then--"

"And then what? May he reflect on how easily he could have lost all!" He wiped his dagger clean before sheathing it. "Herumor!"

"Yes, my lord?"

"Ready his beast. He leaves _now_."

Herumor slipped from the room.

 

 

 

 

A short while later they stood on the parapet, Herumor holding the flying beast's reins. The King dragged Khamul to the saddle, shoving him aboard none too gently. Herumor handled the reins while the King strapped Khamul on tightly. When he finished, the reins were drawn over the beast's head, and Khamul's hands looped through them.

Herumor kicked the beast and the animal leapt from the wall. It flapped its wings and soon disappeared into the night.

For several moments no one spoke. Finally Herumor broke the silence. "You should have killed him."

"No," said the King. "We have enough problems of our own now. We do not need to add Dol Guldur."

"What--what will he do?" asked Ariashal.

"He will run back to his master, and whine like a beaten pup." The King pulled his cloak over her shoulders. "That was always his way."

"What if he finds Ferion?" she asked.

"I would expect Ferion would fear him, thinking he had either found either my lord Herumor or me. But Ferion would not be unwelcome in Dol Guldur. Doubtless he would be promised many things for his aid, none of which would ever be granted."

"We will have to double the watch on those roads," agreed Herumor. "Strange that he has not been seen near Bree, if indeed those men were truthful."

"They spoke the truth," said the King. "They did not lie to me."

"Perhaps he is going somewhere else," offered Ariashal. "Perhaps he is going to Gondor, or Fornost."

"Gondor is too far for him, I think," said the King. "Fornost is likelier. But you may be right, my Queen. He may have wished to be seen going to Bree, the better to hide his true intent."

"And now Khamul is riding across the land." Herumor sighed.

"It seems that Angmar will never know peace." The King quietly headed towards the door. "We will need to keep watch for them both, lest they alert Imladris."

"Khamul would not go there," said Herumor. "He fears the elves."

"That he does," agreed the King. "But I do not know how Ferion is disposed towards Lord Elrond."

"I do not recall my father ever having much discourse with the elves," said Ariashal. "What Ferion may have done, I do not know."

"Considering how ineptly he has dealt with Cardolan, I would suspect that he has had less than cordial relations with Elrond." The King paused at the door. "We must remember that the Elves also have many spies, and Glorfindel is a great hunter. I do not wish to become his prey."  
  
.


	32. The Bell Wether

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

Ariashal watched while the King and Herumor ransacked Khamul's chambers.  
  
There was the usual assortment of clothes--shirts, breeches, slippers--which the King finally decided should be given to some of the keep's poorer inhabitants. There were no weapons; Khamul always kept his sword and dagger close to hand. Herumor discovered some spectacular pendants. Massive settings, huge cabochon jewels, their heavy gold chains glinting in the light, they were typical of the adornment favored by the Easterlings. Ariashal was admiring them when her husband gave a little cry of victory.  
  
She looked up. There, beneath the bedding, Khamul had hidden some papers.  
  
The King brought them closer to the fire. Curious, Ariashal joined him and Herumor. What could Khamul have been writing?  
  
To her surprise, the papers were covered in what seemed to be unintelligible squiggles. Herumor, too, seemed unhappy. "I do not know, my Lord," he began. "I always found their languages incomprehensible. And it seems to me that he has written much in a cipher."  
  
"Yea," agreed the King. "Wisely, he tried to hide his trail. Yet he neglected to recall that such languages can be understood, once the necessary measures are applied."  
  
He carefully carried the papers to the room's sole table. Ariashal watched as he smoothed the wrinkles from the pages, all the while half-humming, half-singing a rather tuneless song. She hoped that she would see some change in the text, but there was nothing that she could discern.  
  
The King, though, had no such difficulty. "At last," he said, "we see what Khamul would report."  
  
He ran a finger over the first block of writing. "Let us see. ‘ _The keep is old, and has been recently reinforced. Anything of value here is probably from Carn Dum._ '"  
  
"He was perceptive," said Herumor.  
  
"Amazingly so, for a blind man."  
  
"Khamul is blind?" Ariashal was startled.  
  
"He can see virtually nothing in the light," began the King, "which is why he was shown about during the day. At night his vision is restored. But his other senses are quite strong. Here, he continues. ‘ _The deposed king is a problem and unless we find him first they will certainly kill him._ '"  
  
"So they do want Ferion." Ariashal clung to the King to steady herself.  
  
"Aye, madame, but we already suspected that. Here is a list of the manufactures and shops in the keep--he has miscounted the smiths, I see--and a list of the Orcish companies that are camped here."  
  
"We were constantly at his side," protested Herumor. "How could he glean so much?"  
  
"He is observant, if not always entirely accurate." The King set the first page aside and began to read again. "Here is more. ‘ _The recent attack by Ferion's forces have all on alert, and infiltration will be highly difficult. Invasion is not advisable, as the land is poor and the people hostile._ '"  
  
"Invasion?" Herumor fingered his sword. "I should have slain him!"  
  
"Nay, my Lord," said the King, "That was probably a signal much hoped for. Khamul's death would be an excuse for war, would it not? And we both know neither side is prepared for that."  
  
"But what if they come anyway?" asked Ariashal. "What then?"  
  
"Any army Dol Guldur could raise would be no match for what is already here," soothed the King. "And in any event, they would never be able to take this keep. Ferion at least spent wisely on that."  
  
"Doubtless because he expected to have to defend against Your Majesty," said Herumor.  
  
"All too true, I suspect," agreed the King. "Behold! Here he has mapped the keep, and yet I do not recall ever permitting him access to some of these rooms."  
  
"Nor do I," said Herumor. "Perhaps he had an informant?"  
  
"How?" asked Ariashal. "I thought you had him under constant watch!"  
  
"We did, yet he found time and privacy enough to write this." The King turned the page. "Damnation!"  
  
Ariashal looked up. The glow from his eyes was so vivid it reflected off the creamy surface of the parchment. "What is it, my Lord?"  
  
He took a long breath. "‘ _Our assumption about the status of the queen is correct. She is never far from his side, nor can any evidence of discord between them be seen. I believe she loves him. I even suspect the feeling is mutual, which changes some of our plans. It now behooves us to keep her alive.'_ "  
  
Ariashal clung ever tighter, burying her face on his sleeve.  
  
"‘ _Of the children,_ '" continued the King, his voice growing even harder, "‘ _the eldest, Imrahil, is much like his father in build. Strong and serious, he was injured in the raid and was treated by his father. The second, Adrahil, is also strong, and stubborn; he will make a difficult adversary and must be approached carefully. The nephew and niece are young, and neither show much promise. The girl might make an acceptable vassal's bride.  
  
"‘Princess Zimraphel, though, is much like her father. She will grow to be beautiful. She also has his talent, which the sons labor to learn. I have come to her nightly, for she thinks me a friendly shade, like her pathetic grandfather. She asks many questions, and I do not know how long I can keep the truth from her.  
  
"‘Of all she will be best--suited--to our plans._'"  
  
The King slammed his fist onto the table, shattering the wood.  
  
"So _that_ was how he learned so much," said Herumor.  
  
"What do we do now?" Ariashal looked to the King. "If he knows the children--if he can reach them--"  
  
"That, I will assure you, he cannot do again." The King sounded like raw steel.  
  
"He could never assume shapes before," said Herumor. "Perhaps he had some device to help him? A gem, perhaps?"  
  
The King turned to Ariashal. "Give me those jewels."  
  
She gladly handed over the magnificent necklaces. For several minutes the King studied each of them, running his fingers over their polished surfaces. Finally he threw them to the floor.  
  
"They are nought but jewels," he said, clearly disgusted with himself. "If he carried a device, he must have worn it at all times. Why did I not search him before sending him home?"  
  
"You--you did not know," soothed Ariashal.  
  
"Where would he obtain such a thing?" wondered Herumor. "Sauron has no form to wield the tools needed, and Fuinor has little skill at sorcery. Certainly the elves would not trade with him."  
  
"I do not know," said the King. "Possibly--possibly some of the Istari would do so. Two went East, and they may well have dealt with Khamul."  
  
"Istari?" protested Herumor. "They were sent to watch Sauron, not trade with him!"  
  
"They are as corruptible as any," answered the King. "And we both well know what can happen in the East."  
  
"True enough," sighed Herumor. "They worshiped us there."  
  
"Yet the minds of the Easterlings are ever subtle." The King retrieved the papers. "I have no love for Khamul, yet this--this is exceedingly sloppy, and not what I would expect of him."  
  
"What do you mean?" asked Ariashal.  
  
He fingered the papers. "I think, my queen, that we were meant to find these."  
  
"A warning?" said Herumor.  
  
"I suspect so. He did not mean for us to find it quite so soon, but we were to discover it nonetheless."  
  
Ariashal looked over at the mass of paper. "Is there nothing we can do?"  
  
"About what? He has seen, and soon he will speak. And Sauron will take pleasure in knowing that he has sent the message he wished, that it has been received, and understood. Perhaps," he added, chuckling menacingly, "he will also understand that he will not be obeyed. Herumor!"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Recall your beast. I think it wise for a Numenorean to make an appearance at Carn Dum."  
  
"It may take some time for him to return," warned Herumor. "You know how far they can fly."  
  
"He will not have strayed too far. Recall him, and prepare to exchange places with me. You will inspect Carn Dum, looking for any signs of penetration. Inform no one of your true identity. Let all believe that I have heard reports of espionage, and am so displeased with their work in my absence that I have had to return home."  
  
"There will be some who are difficult to fool," said Herumor.  
  
"Yes, and if you are discovered, you may take them into confidence. I suspect, however, that those who suspect the ruse will also be able to suspect why it is necessary. Stay only a day or two, long enough to be certain that all is well, and then return."  
  
"Is there anything which I should retrieve while I am there?"  
  
"I can think of nothing which is crucial. Remember, the shepherd has sent the bell wether. He has been chased off. Soon he will send the dogs to try and drive us back to the fold."  



	33. Interlude of Innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

 

They spent the following morning with their children. Imrahil was praised for his courage during his convalescence, Adrahil for his patience, and the two littlest for behaving. Ariashal gave each a kiss before sending them down to the gardens with their guards. Zimraphel, however, was taken aside by her parents for a long talk.

The King sat on the edge of the bed. Zimraphel quickly claimed his lap. "Tell me of your new ghost-friend," began the King.

Zimraphel stared up at him, huge blue eyes wide. "How did you know?"

"I know many things. Tell me about him."

She looked at her mother. Ariashal smiled encouragingly. "He said--he said I was not supposed to tell."

"I see," said the King. "What else did he tell you?"

"He said you and mamma would make him go away."

"And why did he say that?"

"I--I-- think he said you make everyone go away."

"Well. Did I make your brothers go away?"

She shook her head.

"So why would I make your friend go away?"

"I dunno."

He carefully lifted her up. "Is every one in the whole world nice?"

Zimraphel shook her head.

"Do you think all the ghosts are nice?"

Zimraphel had clearly not thought of that. She bit her lip.

"What we are trying to say," began Ariashal, "is that this ghost was not a nice ghost."

Zimraphel looked up at her, blue eyes filling with tears. "But he said--he said he was my friend!"

"I know," continued the King. "But anyone who wants you to lie to your mother and me is not your friend."

"He said I was his friend!"

"I know he did," soothed the King. "But he lied. Just remember, there are as many bad ghosts as there are bad people. Not all the ones who come to see you will be nice."

"But how do I know?"

"Well," the King relaxed slightly, "if they tell you not to tell me, or your mother, then you know they are not a friend."

"But why?"

"Because anyone who wants you to hide something from your parents is bad, and not your friend."

Zimraphel fell silent, digesting this new information. Finally she looked up at him. "Play with me?"

"What do you want to play?"

"Throw me!"

"Very well." The king picked her up before standing. "I will throw you."

Ariashal watched as he tossed their little girl high into the air. He caught her just before she hit the floor, only to swing her back over his head.

"More!" shrieked Zimraphel.

"As you wish." He swung her about, dropping her frighteningly close to the floor. With one hand he caught her, then flung her far above the ground. Again and again he threw her, catching her at the last possible moment before sending her skywards once again.  
  
Ariashal watched them, her heart a mix of complex emotions. On one hand she was serenely happy, content to watch her husband and daughter lost in innocent play; while, on the other, she could not help but feel a slight touch of jealousy. Never had she known such affection from her own father. He had always been too involved with the kingdom to play with her, and when he did bother to pay attention to his children it was primarily to instruct her brothers in the fine art of warfare. Her role, such as it was, had been that of ornament, a bauble to be traded away for whatever advantage could be had.

If only her father had loved her this much! Perhaps he would have thought about her instead of appraising her. Not once could she recall him lavishing such affection upon her. He never even bothered to visit her when she was ill.

But there had been one who had treated her well. Her uncle, Thabadan, the namesake of her tiny grand-nephew. He had taken the time to play with the children. To her he had seemed a giant, like all adults; although she knew, now, that he had not been much older than the children himself.

He had taken them to a secret grotto, a pool hidden amongst the rocks where a small waterfall tumbled over the stones. Here they had all swum and played, listening to his stories about the elves and other fey creatures. That spring had been spent racing in the water, collecting quartz pebbles and listening for Elven songs in the breeze.

Going to the grotto became, for her, the highlight of the trip to the keep. The family wintered in a fortified manor closer to Amon Sul; but here, at their summer home, waited the secret pool. Every year she counted the days until they could return, and she could plunge over the little fall into the secret realm of the pool.

And then, one year, he had ridden off with the others to war.

She waited, with the other children, for their playmate to return. The guards took them to the grotto once, but without Thabadan it was not nearly as much fun. Finally the army returned, Thabadan lying in a box trimmed with silver. Her father mentioned something, once, about a skirmish that left many dead. His name was never spoken again.

After that the little grotto lost most of its charm. The waterfall still splashed, the rocks still glittered with quartz, but the magic that she had felt there was forever gone. She went a few more times, before outgrowing the need to listen for the Elven songs.

But had she? Had the magic really gone, or was it still lurking there, dormant, awaiting another who could bring it forward?

"More!" giggled Zimraphel.

The King held her at arm's length. "As you wish."

With one fluid move he twirled her, swinging her as effortlessly as he handled his sword. Zimraphel's hair was a blur, her dress a swirl of greens. For several minutes he swung her, until she was giggling so hard that her face glowed red. Finally he spun her around, dropping her onto the bed.

"More!" she shrieked, bouncing up towards her father. "Do more!"

"Nay, little one," he began, "I fear I must now rest. You may go and play with your brothers, if you have the strength."

She slid from the bed and scampered to the door. Outside the waiting guards escorted her away.

Ariashal waited until she was out of earshot. "I do not believe you are tired."

"No. But I wanted her to leave while she was still happy, and able to play with the others."

"Do you think Khamul will try to come back?"

"No. Not Khamul. But there are many others, and as long as she knows she must tell us we have a chance of preventing another intrusion."

"And Ferion?"

"I rather suspect that, should he encounter Khamul, he would assume that he had met another of my envoys. I doubt that he would believe Khamul's intentions to be pure."

"There is another matter I would speak of," she began. "A much pleasanter one."

"I must meet with my men soon," he said, gently taking her hand. "But I suppose they can be delayed a while."

"No, I was not thinking of that!" she laughed. "No, I was thinking of a place I knew as a child. Perhaps it would be good to take our children there."

"You are a cold, cruel woman," he mocked. "You led me on. Very well. What is this place?"

As swiftly as she could she described the grotto and waterfall, and the happy hours she had known there. Once she was finished, she waited for his verdict.

"There could be much merit in such a place," he said. "The guards will first examine it, and make certain that Ferion has not made a trap there. Once they are certain that all is safe, then Herumor can accompany you and the children to this haunt of yours."

"But what of you?" She could not hide her disappointment.

"There is so much I must do here," he soothed. "You know this. And well you know that Herumor is an effective decoy."

"He is not my husband."

He chuckled. "Then I swear this to you. When Herumor has returned, and you have been to this grotto a few times, I will go with you. Alone. For I would see this lair of magic, without the distractions of others." He gently kissed her hand. "Adzuphel awaits me. I will escort you to our chambers, and will see you there anon."

Happily she followed him from the room. Soon they would go to her secret waterfall, and there she would again see magic.  



	34. A Goblet of Brandy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

A Goblet of Brandy

 

 

 

Ariashal had just begun her embroidery when Herumor arrived.

He was dressed for travel, breastplate glinting in the fading light, sword at his side. As carefully as he could he settled in one of the chairs. Ariashal swiftly brought him a small goblet and filled it with brandy.

"You have come to know me well," he said, taking the silver vessel.

"It has been no hardship to do so," she said, smiling. She seated herself opposite him. "You have a long journey ahead of you. I hope that it will be successful."

"As do I." he sipped some of the liquid. "I--there is something which I must tell you, while I still can. Something more important than you know."

Her heart skipped. "What is it?"

Herumor swirled the brandy around the goblet. "The King, madame. It is about the King."

"What--is--is something wrong?"

"Nay, my lady." He swallowed a mouthful of the red liquid. "It is just that--it is that he loves you, madame."

She caught her breath. "But--he has never spoken of such things to me. How do you know this?"

"I have known him a long time, madame."

She poured him some more of the brandy.

"Thank you. Surely his treatment of you must have made his feelings clear. And I--I have seen the way he looks at you, madame. I have seen how he brightens when you are in his presence. I think--I think he has found a certain peace with you, something which has long eluded him.

"You must be very careful, madame. You must be on constant watch for any who would harm you. For if something--anything--untoward--should befall you, I fear what he would do. Both to your attackers, and to--and to the whole of the world. There would be no limit to the depths of his despair."

She managed to breathe. "I see."

"No, madame, you do not. You do not know what I have just told you. You understand the words, but not their import. Do you know why he can never speak of this to you?"

She needed more of the brandy. "Sauron?" she managed to whisper.

"Yes. But not for the reasons you think. For he has given you the one thing which Sauron desired from him, but could never have."

He fingered the goblet. Ariashal quickly refilled it.

"He loves you, madame. And Sauron wanted that for himself."

Despite the shaking of her hands she managed to set the bottle aside. "What--what--do you mean?"

Herumor took a long draught. "I have perhaps said too much, madame."

"No." She seized his hand. "If it something which I must know, then you must tell me."

He sighed. "I should have said nothing."

"But you have begun, and it is hardly fair for you to stop now! Please, my lord, if it will help the King, then I must know what it is."

For several moments Herumor was silent. He tapped the goblet, finally setting it aside. "I may never be forgiven for this."

She handed the refilled goblet back to him.

Sighing, he took it and drank. "You understand, of course, that the Ruling Ring permitted him to control us. He could compel us to do things which we did not wish, things which were not in our nature to do. Sometimes he forced his phantoms and delusions upon us. At other times he used us as puppets, as--toys-- for him to manipulate any way he wished. Sometimes we were set upon each other, as a test of strength. Sometimes we were set upon by whatever fell creatures he could call from the darkness.

"He wanted us to understand that we were dependent on him for everything. We had nothing, except what he permitted us. He had taken all, and only gave back what he thought we needed. That was why he renamed us--we must have nothing he did not wish for us to have.

"There are those who worship men stronger than themselves, who follow the mightiest sword. Khamul is such a man. He will ever follow Sauron."

"But not you."

"Nay, madame. I follow the King. He is far stronger than I. And Sauron did not know how strong he could be. He wanted the most powerful Man he could find, one who could lay claim to Numenor and be followed. He wanted one who was already a sorcerer, and warrior, and ruling king. It took far longer to snare the King than he wanted; and he did not expect what resulted.

"You know, of course, that they often fought. Sauron kept him at his side, seating him over us and always showering him with favors. Never was he punished before us. Sauron would take him off, in private, to enforce his will."

What had she seen in her vision from the previous night? "A round room," she murmured.

"He has spoken of it?" Herumor sounded incredulous.

"No. No, it was--it was in the dream I had last night. I saw him, hanging from the ceiling, while Sauron tormented him with a whip of flame."

"The round room." Herumor took a long drink. "It is not a memory which I cherish. For we all were taken there, madame, to be reminded of our place. Were we defiant, after our trials we might be left hanging in the dark, while all manner of vermin were set upon us. If we conceded quickly, then the sessions were brief. And if we had done something which pleased him mightily, we were even spared the ordeal."

"But what I saw--"

"What you saw, madame, was one of the gentler moments. As I said, Sauron wanted his love. And that he would not give.

"Sauron fears the men of Numenor. Why this should be, I do not know. And he had used the ring to catch the strongest Numenorean man. Perhaps Sauron thought that he could win the King's affections. Again, I do not know.

"What I do know is that, once it became clear that he would not gain what he wished by granting favors, he turned to threats. When that, too, did not advance his case, he became violent. But once again he had underestimated the King. For, as you already know, Sauron could use his ring to force us to do what he wished; and I suspect that you know how he used it on us."

A sickening thought came to her. "He--he took you by force."

Herumor gulped the brandy. "Yes--although force is perhaps the wrong word. We had no say in the matter, for he used his ring to make us concede. And there are always those who will accept such arrangements, even, if I may say so, revel in them."

"Like Khamul."

"Khamul? No, not him. He likes women overmuch. Fuinor, though, was always willing. But he was not the Numenorean whom Sauron wanted.

"One day Sauron offered to make him King of Numenor. All he had to do was defeat Ar-Pharazon, who even then was pursuing an invasion of Middle-Earth. That offer was spurned."

"He would not take the scepter?"

"No. There was no circumstance, he said, under which he would permit Sauron to set foot upon Meneltarma. Nothing could change his mind. And if Sauron wished to pursue the matter, he would desert the dark lord in favor of Numenor, and none would stand at Sauron's side."

"But Sauron still had the ring!"

"That he did, madame. But in the heat of battle, he could not possibly control all nine of us."

She quickly refilled his goblet.

"Thank you. Sauron, as you may imagine, was furious. But we saw our lord deny him this, and we all agreed that we would not challenge the might of Numenor. So Sauron begged, then threatened, and then finally seized him and hauled him off to the round room."

Herumor downed more brandy, as if the warm liquid could ease the memory of the story. "I--I do not know exactly what happened then, madame. All I know is that we could--we could hear Sauron screaming at him, demanding his love, and being met by silence.

"And then the beating began.

"There are some sounds, madame, which are unmistakable. We knew that what was happening was beyond anything we had yet seen Sauron do, and we had seen much. Even Khamul was worried about what the outcome might be. And so we waited, fearful, while Sauron exacted his vengeance."

Ariashal buried her face in her hands.

"You wished to know, madame," said Herumor, his voice gentle. "And you must also know about what happened next."

She managed to look up at him. "What--what did happen?"

"We could hear screaming, and the sound of something breaking. There was a sudden silence. And then Sauron tore open the door.

"He was covered in blood, and other things; his eyes were wild and frantic. In his arms he carried the King, his head falling back over his shoulder. Sauron staggered into the room and sobbed, 'I have slain him! I have slain my beautiful Numenorean!'

"And to say the sooth, madame, the King did, indeed, look dead. He bled from a hundred wounds, his flesh had been torn and his bones broken. Sauron laid him on his own bed, sobbing and wailing that it was our fault that this had happened, and now he was dead. We feared getting close, for Sauron was quite capable of destroying us as well.

"After a while Sauron ordered us into the room with the King. We had failed him, he could not trust us, and now he had no choice but to go and humble himself before Ar-Pharazon. He sealed the doors, so that we could not escape, and left to meet the Numenoreans."

"But," began Ariashal, "the King was not dead, was he?"

"No." Herumor swallowed more brandy. "No. Why he survived, I do not know; but survive he did. Long indeed was the time needed for his recovery. I ministered to him, dressing the wounds and setting the bones. He spoke naught of what he had endured, but the wounds told the story that he would not.

"We soon escaped our prison. When word reached us that Sauron had indeed gone to Numenor, our hearts were heavy, for we knew that he would be the downfall of that fair land. Alas, we were correct."

Ariashal began to pour him more brandy.

"No, madame." He stood to leave. "I have had quite enough for one day. I must needs go and see to my beast, for the King wants me to leave soon."

"Very well." She set aside the vessel. "Herumor?"

He turned from the door. "Yes, madame?"

"I--thank you for telling me."

"I knew he would not do so, madame. And I should probably have not spoken of it, either."

"Oh, no! No." She went to him. "I know that you only do what is best for him. For I do believe that, in your own way, you do love him."

"Aye, madame, though not in the same manner as you!"

She could not help but smile.

"But that is why you must keep yourself safe, madame. The wounds caused by your untimely death would never heal. Never forget that." He kissed her hand and slipped through the door.  



	35. Survivors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

Survivors

 

 

 

 

 

 

For a long time Ariashal sat alone, her embroidery dangling listlessly from her hand. Herumor's recollections of those horrific days were almost too awful to bear; and she was only hearing them recounted, not facing Sauron herself.

The strange nightmares she had had, the visions of her beloved husband being tortured in the most extreme manner possible, had not, after all, been fantasies and delusions. No, they had been real, all too real, and far more ghastly than she had imagined. The King had told her, many times, that he had endured more than anyone was capable of meting out. She had assumed it was something he had said as a way for him to soothe and allay her fears. Now, she knew, it was not. There was, indeed, little that he had not survived.

If only there was a way, some small way, for her to erase some of the pain and horror of his enslavement! She would gladly trade kisses for lashings, if it meant he felt some measure of relief. She would take his place, and let the fury of Sauron rain upon her body. The dark one could fling her to the dragons and the balrogs, if it secured the King's freedom.

"Are you well?"

Startled, she dropped the unfinished embroidery. "My lord! I did not hear you enter."

He crossed to her, gently laid his hands on her shoulders. "You seem preoccupied, and anxious. Is there something amiss?"

There was no use trying to hide from him; he could read her all too well. She burst into tears, seizing his hands in hers.

"Ariashal, what is the matter? Are you unwell?"

"No," she managed to sob. "But Herumor said--"

"Herumor! He was barely able to mount his beast. What were the two of you doing?"

"What? We did nothing! We simply shared some brandy."

"Judging from his condition, Herumor had considerably more than some brandy. He has been gone less than an hour, and already you miss his company?"

"No! No, my lord. That is not what I meant."

"Then what is it?"

She swallowed, hard. "Sauron. He told me--he told me what Sauron did to you."

He took a long breath. "What, exactly, did Herumor say?"

"He told me--he told me about the way you were treated."

"That is not all you were told."

"He told me about the time Sauron nearly killed you."

"I see." The King seated himself next to her. "Ofttimes, I wish he had slain me."

"What? Why? Do you--do you not wish to be with me?"

He laughed. "Nay, my lady queen. You are by far the finest thing to ever grace my presence! I am glad to have you at my side."

"He said Sauron loved--"

"Love?" The King cut her off, his eyes shimmering red. "Sauron knows nothing of love. He knows hate, and pain; but he knows not the difference between lust, love, or even hunger. All he understands is the craving of power. But of real love, he is ignorant."

She dabbed at her tears. "Why did he try to kill you?"

"I assure you, that was not his intent. Nay, he wished to force me to lead his army against Ar-Pharazon, and that I would not do. It infuriated him that I would deny him his dream of becoming the true master of Middle-Earth. And he knew it was my fault, my queen, for he had men enough to make a fight of it. Ar-Pharazon lacked the full might of Numenor. Sauron could have made a good war, and he would have drawn much blood."

"But he would not."

"No, he would not, and that was because he needed me. When I refused, he thought he could not win. For he had bragged that he would sweep all Numenoreans into the sea, and when he had cleansed Middle-Earth he would attack Numenor itself. I refused to wage war against my heir. For Ar-Pharazon was, still, a descendant of my son.

"It was one thing to destroy the small colonial kingdoms. But once they had joined with Ar-Pharazon's fleet they would not be so easily defeated. Sauron would be facing the greatest host assembled in Middle-earth since the First Age.

"Sauron is a coward. Without us at his side, he believed he could not win. And once he thought he had slain me, he knew the others would not follow him. So he chose to surrender rather than risk any harm to himself. What happened to us, or indeed to any of his followers, mattered not. His only concern was, and still is, his own survival."

"Yet still," she mused, "he destroyed Numenor."

"Yes, and when Westernesse drowned and the world was made round, we rejoiced. For we believed that Sauron had drowned, too; and while we might never again gaze upon Valinor, nor ever return to our homeland, we believed we were free of his wrath."

"But he returned."

"Yes." The red glow had yet to fade. "He returned, and some sea-creature found his ring for him. So he could again call us to him, and again demand of us what he would."

"Surely things must have been different!"

"Aye, indeed, madame, they were. For he did not expect to see me alive. The sight of me standing before him, strong and well, frightened him. He believed that he could not slay me, and so now he was forced to treat me almost as an equal. So he granted me more freedom, although I could not be truly free while he held the ring."

"He must have left you alone."

"Ahh, my dear queen! Ever are you a font of hope. He still had the ring, so I could still be compelled to do his bidding. And he could still punish me, if he would. It plagued him to no end that he could not break me. As far as can be judged, it plagues him still."

"But he does not have his ring."

"Nay, and until he can make a new one, his control is much reduced. I will not help him in such an endeavor, and I doubt anyone else will, either."

"So he will stay in Dol Guldur forever."

"If all goes well, yes. Should some fool make him a new ring, or should his old ring manage to reappear, then things will not bode well for anyone."

She curled up next to him. "I wish I could have been there, to take some of the punishment he gave you! I would rather he tore me apart than harm you!"

"Ariashal!" he hissed, his voice like iced steel. "Never, never wish for that! Never! For if he could, he would take you! And that is one thing which you could not survive."

"But my lord--"

"I know why you say this," he gently stopped her. "I know what it is that you mean. But I also know what he will do with such knowledge.

"You must understand," he continued, "what has happened in the past is over. We cannot change it now, much as we might wish. All we can do is to take what has happened to us both, and go on. I would have you no other way than how you are now."

She looked up at him, tears blinding her eyes. "Oh, my lord," she whispered, burying her head against his chest, "I would not trade you for the world."  



	36. Cleaning House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

CHAPTER 34 Cleaning House

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few days later Ariashal rode out to the secret pool. Surrounded by a mass of guards, their spears bristling protectively, she felt reasonably secure. The children were left at home, where they would be safe. With both the King and Adzuphel there, she knew that no harm would be able to get to them.

The little grotto and stream were sadly overgrown and neglected. The feeder stream had been partially dammed, reducing the flow to a slow trickle. Some creature had made a nest in the grotto, littering the floor with scattered bits of bone and fur. Most of the trees were either dead or severely withered; the loss of the once-gushing flow had drained much of their vitality.

Seeing her beloved grotto so badly damaged filled Ariashal with despair. That evening she tearfully told the King about its plight, uncertain of what to do.

"If it grieves you to see it so," said the King, "then you must make it right. The men will do what you wish, for I wish it too."

Accordingly she set the guards to work, having them clear away the years of growth that choked the little stream and clean up the fallen branches. Ariashal supervised the work, ordering the men to haul away the sickly masses of slime and debris. Inside the grotto, the men dug away the layers of offal and sludge until they finally reached stone.

Cleaning the place took several days. Ariashal had them plant some new trees, replacing those that had died. At the King's command, a wagonload of clean white sand was brought in to create a sheltered beach. Finally the dam itself was dismantled, flushing the last of the muck from the streambed and grotto.

Ariashal watched, thrilled, as her favorite place was reborn. When the dam fell and the stream flowed again, spraying all with mists from the falls, she felt content. Thanks to her, a tiny piece of Rhudaur had been salvaged from the neglect of Ferion.

To reward the men who had labored so long and tirelessly on the project, she gave them permission to spend this one day swimming in her pool. Seeing the young men splashing and swimming, their lithe, muscled bodies gleaming wetly in the sunlight, pleased her. None of them were the equal of the King; they were all too small, too soft, to compare to the hard, firm man she knew so well.

She would have to bring him here, where she could show him her secret grotto in private.

 

 

That evening she related the news of the finished work to her family. The children were anxious to go and see this new wonder that their mother had made for them, but the King was apprehensive. Yes, there were guards and wolves aplenty, but they were not enough. Despite their pleas and tears, the King was adamant: they would not go until Herumor returned.

"But you could take us!" begged Imrahil.

"There is still much I must do. The role of King is not one to be taken lightly, my son. Your uncle Ferion treated kingship as an irksome task, one which he avoided. That is why I must now stay here, and try to mend the damage his neglect caused."

"When I am King, I will have men to take care of such things!" declared Imrahil.

"That you will, my son, but always remember: You alone are the arbiter of the kingdom. Your decisions must be final. You must never let your men rule you. Your people expect that you will see to it that all laws and decisions are just. Anything less is a betrayal of their trust."

"But what if Herumor never comes back?" asked Adrahil. "What if he always stays away?"

The King laughed. "That he will not do. He has reports which he must bring me, and so he will be back soon."

"Maybe Adzuphel could go," suggested Imrahil.

"Perhaps, when Herumor returns, he will accompany you. But I have need of him now, and he cannot be spared."

Imrahil cocked his head. "I thought you said you must be your own man, and not have any man rule you."

"Indeed, I did, for that is true. It is also true that you must have men to serve you whose judgement can be trusted to be both fair and sound. Adzuphel is such a man. You will have to search long to find anyone as trustworthy as he."

"When I grow up, I will help you!" declared Adrahil. "I can be trusted."

"That you can, my son. But there is much you must learn before you can take a seat at my council. And if nothing else, your penmanship must improve dramatically, lest in misreading your notes I declare war on an innocent."

Imrahil snickered. Adrahil kicked his brother, sending Zimraphel into giggling fits. Ariashal quickly separated them.

"That is enough political talk for one evening," she warned. "If you do not behave, none of you will go to my pool. Am I understood?"

They quickly broke off their engagement, obediently placing their hands on the table.

"That is much better. You have much to do tomorrow," she continued. "You have lessons, and the cobbler is coming to fit you for new boots."

"Can I get blue ones?" asked Zimraphel.

"We will see," replied Ariashal. "Come, all of you. Bid your father good night, then off you go to bed."

 

 

 

 

Back in their chambers, Ariashal silently worked on her embroidery while the King finished reading reports from the east. She liked to be near him while he worked; it gave her a sense of closeness, a feeling that she helped him in some small way by being nearby. He was considerably more relaxed in her presence, willing, even, to let his guard down. Periodically she looked over at him, trying to discern from his posture if he were tired, or frustrated, or annoyed. Every nuance was telling, though she knew he did not wish it so; but she could not help studying his every move, every gesture, every sigh.

From the rapid scratching of his pen on parchment she knew that he was unhappy with the report in front of him. She guessed that it had something to do with the forest surveys that Ferion had ordered, but never, apparently, bothered to read; they were still sealed in their original cases when Adzuphel presented them at council the day before yesterday.

He finished writing and blotted the ink.

"Is everything well, my lord?"

"This fool wrote down lists of trees, but did not name where they were. And the places he does name are not on any of the maps."

"Perhaps I can help." Setting aside her embroidery, she went to his side. "I could read them and see if I recollect any of the places named."

"Perhaps you could." He pushed away from the desk. "But not tonight. I have other plans for you tonight."

She kissed him. "As you wish, my lord."

He ran his hands over her gown. "Now this--this is a land for which I need no map."

 

 

 

 

Afterwards she lay snuggled against him, her fingers interlaced with his. Idly she tapped the great opal ring. "There is something which confuses me, my lord."

"Oh? What? I thought I had made myself quite clear to you just a short time ago!"

"No," she laughed. "No, it is not that. It is--it is more serious than that."

He sat up, pulling her with him. "What is it?"

"It is--it is just that I do not understand. Why, when you had the chance, did you not flee? Why did you return to--to him?"

He sighed. "We had nowhere else to go."

"But surely there must have been someplace you could go."

"No. No, there was not. We could stay in the lands he had ruled, as long as we could keep them more or less under control. But as for leaving those lands, and seeking shelter elsewhere, that was not possible."

"I--I do not understand. Why could you not simply leave?"

"And go where? Everywhere we go, we are hunted. Once our presence is known, we find ourselves confronting those who wish us destroyed."

"But the elves--"

He cut her off with a hard, bitter laugh. "The Elves? The Elves are the worst!"

"But you are Numenorean! You are their kin!"

"Aye, my queen, that I am. And for that I am hated all the more." He took a long breath. "When Sauron was taken to Numenor, I rode to see Gil-Galad. I thought that he, as the Elven high king, would have some advice, some aid to give. I thought that, perhaps, if we joined forces, we could together trap Sauron at Numenor and destroy him forever."

"What happened?"

"What happened? What do you think happened? I rode to Gil-Galad, under a flag of truce. I was not permitted to enter their city. Instead they met me on the open fields.

"And it was 'they', for, while I traveled alone, Gil-Galad did not. With him was Glorfindel, the balrog slayer, and his herald, Elrond half-Elven--my cousin, however distant. 'What do you want, wraith?' demanded Elrond. Never have I forgotten the contempt in his voice.

"I laid out my plans. We held rings, and I knew that Gil-Galad kept one for himself. The ones made by Celebrimbor without the aid of Sauron were the ones they had kept. The others had been given to us. I said that we could use the rings to overwhelm Sauron, now that he was weak, and we could force the One from him and destroy him--and it--forever. But it would take all of us to do it, else he would be able to seize control of enough of the ringbearers to thwart the plan.

"Gil-Galad laughed at me. He said I only wanted their aid to take Numenor for myself. No, I told him, I did not want that. My descendants ruled Westernesse, and in that I was content. But that did not satisfy him.

"The rings, he said, were not the concern of the Elves. Sauron had gone, and they were not about to entertain the idea that one of his spies had come to them with a foolish plan to free him.

"At this I grew angry. Had not Celebrimbor made these very rings? I held up mine for them to see. 'This is the work of Elves!' I said. The rings had been made for Elves. Yet they had chosen to let them go to the men and dwarves rather than destroy them. They could have flung them back into the forge that spawned them, yet this they did not do. No, they were content to let Sauron take the rings to capture men and dwarves. The Elves cared not, so long as they themselves were untouched.

"Gil-Galad was infuriated, yet he knew I spoke the truth. Finally, he said, 'Go, wraith, and trouble us no longer. Should I see you again, I will strike you dead.' I laughed at him, for I knew that was one thing he could not do. But before I left, I warned him. He had a chance, now, to defeat Sauron. If he did not do so, he would have to face Sauron again; and this time, I would not be able to give him the aide he would need.

"And so I left, and rode back to the others."

"If only they had listened to you! How much tragedy could have been averted!"

"Aye, madame, but the firstborn are arrogant, and they would heed no counsel of mine. And when Isildur cut the ring from Sauron's hand, they probably believed that we too were cut off. They did not know we had fled east, where we could find some refuge."

"Why did you come back, if you found the east safe?"

"Twas not as safe as we wanted. And, truth to tell, I wanted to be near the remnants of my people. I wanted to hear again the language of Numenor, and to see again the western seas. When I saw that much of the north was free, I resolved to make my kingdom there."

"But what of the others? Have they decided to make kingdoms, too?"

He sighed. "No, my queen. Most of the others are weak. They once ruled, tis true; but much of their strength was stolen by Sauron. Now they no longer have the will to rule."

"Herumor," she said.

"Aye, Herumor. He would no longer be fit to rule. That is why I wish him to stay in Angmar."

"And the others?"

"Khamul and Fuinor, as you know, have chosen to stay in Dol Guldur. They are best left there, I think. Most of the others still live in the south and east, awaiting my command."

"Will you bring them to Angmar?"

He drew a long breath. "I am their lord. As such I will provide them a refuge. But not all. The six I trust will come to Angmar. The others can rot in Dol Guldur."

"I would like to meet them."

"Very well. When we return to Carn Dum, I will summon them individually, that you might meet them. And if you should find any of them agreeable, they may stay."

 

 

 


	37. Herumor Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

_Herumor Returns_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ariashal supervised the cobbler while he measured the feet of the royal children. Imrahil  
behaved with decorum worthy of a prince; Adrahil was reasonably calm; Zimraphel, restless; but the two littlest were terrified of the strange, leather-scented man. They clutched the nurses' skirts, crying, kicking, and fighting, while their feet were quickly measured.   
  


Truth be told, she had many misgivings about the cobbler. Her observations were not reassuring. He was short and thin; years of hard work had robbed him of his youth and many of his teeth. He reminded her of her own experiences with tailors and cobblers, men who plied the trades in whatever town the court had happened to be staying. Her father saw no reason to pay men to work only for him; any master craftsman would do, and he would not have to 'drag them around with him'. She could not recall any one of them being as skillful as the sleek southerner who made the royal shoes at Carn Dum. Indeed, she had wanted to wait until they returned home before fitting the children with new shoes; but the King had insisted that they patronize a local man. Besides, some of his own shoes needed resoling, and he had no intention of wearing his boots from now until they reached Carn Dum.   
  


When the cobbler finally finished with them, he gathered up his papers and the King's worn shoes. "I should have these back by week's end."  
  


"Very well. My servants shall see you out."  
  


After he left, Lalwen ran to Ariashal, clinging desperately to her skirt. "Mama!" she cried, sobbing. "Mama!"  
  


Ariashal gently scooped her up. "He has gone, little one," she soothed. "All is well now."  
  


But Lalwen would not be comforted. She clung to Ariashal, crying, until she finally fell asleep. The nurse gently took her, carrying the limp child to her bed. Ariashal watched while the girl was laid out for sleep.  
  


"Why did she call you Mama?" demanded Imrahil.  
  


Ariashal took a long breath. "Her own mother died when she was very small, Imrahil. That she and Thabadan are starting to think of you as their brother and your father and I as their parents is very important."  
  


"But why?" Zimraphel seized her mother's hand. "You are not her mother!"  
  


"No, little one, I am not. But she needs a mother, for she and Thabadan are all alone."  
  


"So if we accept them as family they become family?" Imrahil eyed the sleeping child.   
  


"Yes, and it is wise of you to see that. For if they do not have us, then they have no one."  
  


"Then they will always have us!" Adrahil protectively put one arm over Thabadan's small shoulders. "So you will be my new brother!"  
  


Thabadan stared, wide-eyed, at the older boy.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The King was not pleased with Ariashal's desire to adopt the two children.   
  


She silently embroidered while he stalked about their chambers. He said little, only  


"Fear?" He stopped pacing. "Have you forgotten already what concerns us all? While their grandfather still lives, they are useful as hostages. Should we adopt them, that would make them a rallying point for Ferion. He could claim that we had stolen them and made them our own to strengthen our claims to Rhudaur. There would be many who would be outraged at the thought that the children had been abducted and forced to accept me as their surrogate father."  
  


She set her embroidery aside, needle jabbed through the cloth. "To speak truthfully, I do not think I can bring myself to prevent them calling me "mother". They have known enough hardship in their lives. You know how Ferion neglected them!"  
  


"Aye, madam, you and I know the truth; but there are many still who would side with Ferion. How many actually saw the children? How many would believe what their old king told them? Tis this which we must fear."  
  


"But we cannot continue in this manner forever!"  
  


"Indeed, madame, we cannot. And as soon as Ferion swings from the parapet, then will I gladly take these two children and claim them as my own. For though they were not born of my loins, they are still part of our family, and deserve to be made one with us."  
  


As quickly as she could she joined him, throwing her arms around him before kissing him. "Thank you, my lord!"  
  


"If it pleases you, madame, it will be done." He gently took her hand. "I know that you longed for more children, and I wished for it, too. But I feared that I could not protect you much longer. And you know, now, what it is that would have snatched our children away."  
  


"I could not bear that." She buried her head against his chest.  
  


"Nor could I, my lady queen." He drew her close. "Nor could I."  
  


Someone knocked at the door. Ariashal stepped away from her husband.   
  


"Enter," ordered the King.  
  


Herumor slipped into the room, drawing the door closed behind him.  
  


"Welcome, lord Herumor!" The King greeted his friend. "Tis good to have you with us once more."   
  


"Too long have you been parted from us," added Ariashal.   
  


Herumor bowed to them. "It is good to be in your presence again."  
  


"Tis scarcely a fortnight, yet you have been sorely missed." The King settled into a chair, Ariashal at his side. "Be seated, my friend. How fares Carn Dum?"  
  


  
  
  
  
  


For the rest of the evening Herumor regaled them with the stories of what he had seen on his journey. His recollection of the long flight to Carn Dum was somewhat hazy, although he knew he had seen nothing out of the ordinary. Certainly by the time he reached Carn Dum he was well aware that nothing untoward was occurring.   
  


At Carn Dum the situation was much as they had anticipated. Some, emboldened by the King's absence, had tried to expand and enforce their authority; others saw the Rhudaurian voyage as an opportunity to take a holiday from their appointed tasks. Most, however, had continued in their proper capacity, which pleased the King.  
  


"Angmar is fortunate to have men who are faithful," commended Ariashal. "You have chosen your men well."  
  


"That is true," agreed Herumor. "I had Minios deliver a message to those whose transgressions seemed greatest."  
  


"Minios was not fooled." The King squeezed Ariashal's hand. "He is a most observant Captain of the Guard."  
  


"No, he was not deceived." Herumor chuckled. "He knew immediately who I was, and guessed at why I had come. The beast keeper, too, knew the difference. A good thing, too, for I did not wish to have to ride Nardu!"  
  


"Nardu!" The King laughed. "My old soldier has not mellowed with age!"  
  


"No, he has not! The rascal tried to bite me when I drew too close to his stall."   
  


"Then it is for the best that you were discovered," Ariashal smiled. "I would not want Nardu to eat you!"  
  


"Nor would I," agreed the King.  
  


"I do not think he could stomach such poison," laughed Herumor.  
  


"Outside of nearly poisoning my beast, what other news have you?"  
  


"As I said, Minios delivered the message that no further mischief would be tolerated. The ambassador from Harad was quite angry, for he said he had waited weeks for his audience. I gave him an informal hearing, and it will not surprise you that the arrogance which he displayed to others melted away in my presence. He merely wanted to renew our trade agreements, which I readily approved. He left some gifts of silks, which I ordered placed into the Queen's chambers."  
  


"He is mercifully unaware of his own insignificance," said the King. "He does not realize that his presence in Carn Dum is punishment, and that he has no hopes of ever returning home."  
  


"Why?" Ariashal was confused.   
  


"He is staying in Carn Dum as a favor to the King of Harad," explained Herumor. "He is that king's cousin, and has great, if false, hopes of one day taking the throne. Here, he is no threat to anyone."  
  


"What other crises did I avert?" asked the King.  
  


"His was the only pressing matter. Nothing else needed your attention."  
  


"There were no signs of anyone coming from Dol Guldur?" Ariashal nervously tightened her grip. "No word from Khamul or--anyone else?"  
  


"No, not a thing. I saw no signs that they have even attempted to reach Carn Dum. All was secure."  
  


She sighed, relieved.  
  


"I doubt that any of them will come willingly," explained the King. "Khamul is an Easterling. He has no fondness for snow. And the--other--also hates the cold. I am certain that even Dol  
Guldur is too cold to suit his fancy, yet he dares not leave."  
  


"Perhaps we will have a cold winter, and he will freeze in his tower," offered Herumor.  
  


"We can always hope," agreed the King. "So--was there anything else of import that you wish to share?"  
  


Herumor shrugged. "I saw some men working on a road, and another crew reinforcing a bridge. The crops seem to be healthy, and some harvesting has begun near Carn Dum. All seemed to be in order."  
  


"That is good." The King relaxed. "If that is all, then you may go and rest. Your trip was long, and I know you are weary."  
  


"Thank you." Herumor stood to go.  
  


"My lord," said Ariashal, "there is a boon I would ask of you."  
  


"Whatever you wish, madame."  
  


"I have restored a small pool and grotto near here. I would very much like to take the children here, and would have you accompany us."  
  


"I would be most pleased to do so," agreed Herumor. "Perhaps we shall go tomorrow, weather permitting."   
  


"Yes," she agreed. "Weather permitting."  
  


Herumor nodded and left the room.   
  



	38. Blue Boots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

Blue Boots

 

 

 

 

"Watch me!"

Imrahil bravely stepped up to the edge of the waterfall.. He took a long breath, swung his arms, and launched over the brink. For a moment he seemed almost to fly, before plunging, dartlike, through the surface of the pool.

"That was marvelous!" called Ariashal to her son as he emerged from the water. "You dive like the sailors of old."

Imrahil beamed at her. "I can do more."

"I can dive, too!" shouted Adrahil. He was not yet ready to brave the little falls, but he was willing to leap from one of the rocks that enclosed the grotto. He, too, swung his arms before jumping free of the rock. Unlike his brother, his entry was not so clean. He landed, hard, on his stomach. A huge splash drove water everywhere, even sloshing onto the rocks where Ariashal sat.

Imrahil hauled his gasping brother from the water. "I told you not to jump like that!"

Adrahil managed to stand. "I wanted to splash like that!"

"You did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not!" Imrahil flung water over his brother.

"Hey! Stop it!" Adrahil splashed back.

"Boys," warned Ariashal. "You will stop that immediately."

For a moment they hesitated, before finally Imrahil pushed off in search of new things to try. Adrahil waited until he was certain his brother was out of range before diving beneath the surface of the pool. Seconds later he burst from the water, drenching Imrahil.

"Ha!" he shrieked, plunging back into the pool.

Smiling, Ariashal returned to her embroidery. They had been coming to the grotto for over a week now, and the children showed no sign of tiring of it. There had been diving, of course; but they had also been racing, and wading, and general splashing. They never tired of the water.

She was glad that she made the men scour the pool's bottom before letting the children swim. There was no danger of a stray bit of metal gouging their tender feet. Ariashal set up little treasure hunts for them, scattering glossy quartz stones, old buttons, and coins across the bottom for them to retrieve. She gave little prizes to the one who brought the most, or the biggest, or the whitest.

Her sons were fearless in the water, proud Numenoreans that they were. Zimraphel was also brave, although she lacked the strength to swim like her brothers. Still, she never hesitated to fling herself into the water, or to hold her breath while exploring the bottom of the pool. One day she would be more than a match for her brothers.

But Lalwen and Thabadan were afraid of the water. On the first day they had refused to venture anywhere near the pool, despite the presence of the older children. Thabadan eventually managed to gain enough courage to wade a few feet from shore, but Lalwen steadfastly refused to go. She clung to Ariashal's skirt, trembling and crying.

Finally Ariashal removed her own shoes, tucked up her long skirt, and led the child into the water.

At first Lalwen cried, more, it seemed, from habit than from any genuine fear. As she grew accustomed to the sloshing water, she began to move away from Ariashal, though she never strayed far. Soon Thabadan waded over to them, and before long the two children were cautiously exploring the shallows.

That was several days ago. Now they splashed and even swam a little, though they were careful not to go too far from shore. They dove for the shiny rocks, and floated little boats on the waves.

Zimraphel sometimes splashed them, but Imrahil was forever watching over them. It pleased Ariashal that her eldest son was becoming so responsible.

"Your Majesty really should have a chair."

"Herumor! I did not hear you."

"That is because I do not wish to be heard." He settled onto a large rock. "We really must bring some comfortable chairs here. It does not do for the queen to rest upon a rock."

She laughed. "I suppose so, but I will have no ceremony here! This is a place for refreshment and nature, not etiquette."

He sighed. "As you wish, madame. If all my complaints involved uncushioned rocks, my life would be quite different."

Ariashal could not help laughing. "Perhaps you should bring a pillow, then, so that your seat will not be so miserable."

"I have sat upon many a poor chair in my life, madame. This will not be an ordeal!"

She slipped her needle through the cloth. "I brought some refreshment today. Would you care for brandy?"

"I--no, madame, I must refuse your generosity. I am here to protect you and the children, and there must be nothing left to chance."

"Very well." As she retrieved her embroidery, a thought crossed her mind. "My lord, why do you not join the children in the water? They would love to have you with them."

"I understand that, madame, but as I said, I am here to protect you."

"That could be done just as easily in the water as out." She studied him for a moment. His shoulders trembled slightly. "My lord, do you fear the water? Can you not swim?"

He laughed, a little. "Swim? Oh, I can swim, madame. I am a son of Numenor."

Something in his demeanor caught her attention. "Then what is it, my lord? What do you fear?"

"You have learned to read my moods." He sighed. "It is not fear, not as you would call it. No, it is something else, something--deeper.

"There is much magic in running water, madame. Perhaps all living things feel it when they pass through a stream. But I--we--feel it, and the stronger the flow, the more we are aware of its presence."

"I do not understand."

"Have you never felt it? Have you never lain still in the water, until all thought has left and it seems as though you will drift away? That is what I mean. I believe that we are hearing the ancient call of the sea, not as the Elves do, but as all living things do. Only, for us, it is much stronger. We hear it call to us to let go, to become one with the water, to let ourselves loose that we might dissolve into the ocean and nothingness."

"I have never heard of such a thing."

"I am not surprised. The King rarely discusses this, even with us. It is not something that we wish to think on.

"I--we--live in two worlds, madame. We are not wholly of one or the other. We are here, yes; but we are also of the shadow world, and it is from the shadow world that the water calls us. Here, in this stream, the voice is weak; but in a great river it can be powerful indeed."

"Yet you willingly cross the water."

"Aye, that we do. When the King is present it is much easier, for he can make the voices be still. There are times when I think the water will one day seek its revenge on us, but that day, I hope, is far off."

"Hey!" shrieked Adrahil.

Ariashal turned in time to see Zimraphel merrily drenching her brother. He fought back, sending the biggest waves his flailing arms could muster at his sister.

"Do they feel it, too?" she asked.

"Perhaps. They are so young, though, they might not recognize it for what it is. Although..."

"What is it?"

"It is only that they are of the line of Elros, madame. They carry the blood of the Maiar along with that of the Firstborn."

"So do you and the King."

"Aye madame, that is true enough. And like all of the line of Elros, we are of two worlds, yet not completely in either. We are neither true Elves, nor true Men: we are something in between, and that is what makes us restless and--susceptible.

"In some of us, the blood of Men runs thick, and those are the men who most readily accepted Sauron and the changes he wrought. In others, the blood of Elf and Maia runs true, and these are the men whose lives are most complex."

"Like you and the King."

"More the King than myself, madame, though 'tis true enough that the Elven blood helps me with sorcery. But the King, madame, cannot deny his Elven heritage, for it is written on his face. Never has he grown a beard."

"I always thought that was sorcery!"

"Nay, it is not. He endured some teasing over it, though I assure you that he quickly put an end to that. As for myself, I soon noticed that the young ladies seemed to prefer his face to mine, and so I resorted to his sorcery to help me. But," he added ruefully, "I quickly learned that it was more than just my beard which kept them at bay!"

Ariashal could not help laughing. She could almost see him, crestfallen to discover that his new face did not have the desired effect. And she could well imagine the vengeance the King would have on those who dared torment him.

"The hour grows late," noted Herumor. "We must retrieve the children, lest the King send the guards searching for them."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back at the Keep, the cobbler awaited them. Ariashal inspected the King's shoes while the nurse slipped children's feet into new footwear. The man had done a respectable job of resoling, although his finish was nowhere near as slick as that which their own cobbler managed to achieve.

Ariashal knew the King would be grateful that his own shoes had returned; he had been grumbling about wearing his heavy boots all day.

 

Imrahil and Adrahil were reasonably satisfied with their new, supple boots; the two littlest wore theirs without complaint; but Zimraphel was crushed.

"I wanted blue!" She burst into tears and ran to her mother.

The cobbler bowed his head. "I am sorry, but the only leather I could get was brown."

"Is there no one here who can dye such things?" Ariashal gently stroked her daughter's head.

"No, Your Majesty. We never have call for colored leather."

"I suggest that you locate someone who can provide such things in the future, or risk angering the King."

The man paled. "No, Majesty, I --I tell you what. You take the shoes for free. My gift. No reason to get the King angry!"

"No, good man, you did the work and will be paid for it. I trust that you will no longer make a promise which you cannot keep."

The man stammered his thanks, finally backing out of the room.

Ariashal waited until he had left. "We will go and see your father. I suspect that he will make your boots aright."

 

 

 

 

The King said little as he examined the children. He had the boys trot around the room, so that he could see if they were moving in comfort. When it came time for Zimraphel, though, she refused to move.

"I wanted blue," she crossed her arms over her chest and began to cry.

"Blue?" asked her father. "Very well. Blue you want, and blue you shall have."

He began to speak in a musical language Ariashal recognized as a form of Elven. She watched, fascinated, as he ran his fingers over the boots, leaving a trail of blue leather wherever he touched. He drew some simple patterns, which he quickly filled; traced words which vanished into the color; swirled wide curlicues which seemed to lace together in a solid expanse of blue. When he had finished, Zimraphel jumped into his arms to kiss him.

For a moment the children were silent, entranced by the spell. Finally Imrahil found his voice.

"Can you make mine red?"  



	39. The Grotto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

The Grotto

 

 

 

 

 

 

"So this is your private paradise."

Reining in the pale palomino horse, the King surveyed Ariashal's handiwork. They had ridden together to the grotto, stealing time so that they could spend one day here alone. Only the yellow stallion came with them, bearing them up the trail until they finally reached a breach in the rocks. Ariashal rode behind her husband, holding his waist to keep her balance.

"Yes, my lord. See? I had the men move these rocks to keep the entrance safe." The excitement of finally getting him to come to her pool overwhelmed her usual reticence. She could not stop describing the obstacles that had been overcome, nor showing him all that had been made good. "Do you see, my lord? That place, over there? That was where all the rotted stumps were cleared away to make the white sand beach. And I had the boulders surrounding the pool scrubbed clean of fungus and dirt. I even made them clean the rocks at the top of the falls, and sweep the floor of the pool." She buried her face on his shoulder, willing him to love the grotto as much as she did.

"You have down well, my queen," the King said at last. "All is orderly and good. You have indeed made a fine place here. Small wonder that the children love it so."

She flung her arms about him, seeking his face for a kiss. "Oh, my lord! I feared you would be displeased!"

"Displeased?" he laughed. "Nay, my lady queen. You have done much with this wasteland."

Thrilled, she dismounted. As carefully as she could she slid down the flank of the horse. Smoothing her skirt, she waited for the King to join her. She watched while he slipped the bit from the horse's mouth before turning him loose to graze. He opened the saddlebags and brought a black traveling bag with him.

Ariashal led the way to the little beach. The King took a blanket from the bag and spread it out over the sand. Removing his cloak, he settled down onto it. "Come, my queen, and sit with me."

She willingly nestled next to him, reveling in the feel of the sand molding itself to her body, the touch of sun on her skin, the strong body of the King. Sighing contentedly, she laid her head against his shoulder. "Oh, my Lord," she murmured, "I feared I would never get you to see this."

"You know I have much to do before we return home."

 

 

"You have decided upon a day?"

He shifted a little, stretching his long legs out on the blanket. "Yes, my lady queen. The harvest has begun. While it is some time off for the harvest here, we must return to Carn Dum before the early snows block the passes."

"The children will hate to leave here."

"I know, madame, but we must return home for the winter. We have stayed here far longer than I had planned. And the men wish to return to their families."

"Aye, that is true enough." She began toying with his belt. "I would very much like to show you the cave, but I--I do not wish to be watched."

"Watched? By whom? I had the guards clear this area, and pull back. There is no one here but the two of us, and my horse. And I am quite certain that he is far more interested in grazing than he is in what we are doing."

"And he will not talk, anyway!" she laughed, kicking off her shoes. Humming, she pulled off her overdress and carefully folded it. A slight breeze blew her light chemise between her legs.

"What are you doing?"

"As if you have to ask!" She merrily tossed her shoes onto the pile. "Come, my lord. I will take you to my grotto."

"You make a most inviting offer."

She waded into the pool, kneeling into the shallow water until her chemise was completely soaked. Now it should have the desired effect. She wrung out her hair before turning back to him.

"Are you not coming, my lord?"

"You are sorely tempting me, vixen!"

Laughing, she splashed her way ashore. "Let me help you," she breathed, "for you do not want to wear your sword out here."

"Do not tell me where I may put my sword." He seized her, pulling her into a long kiss. "You had best undress me swiftly, if you would have me in the water--before my lust overwhelms my curiosity."

As quickly as she could she untied his robe and swordbelt, pushing them off his body and onto the blanket. His boots were harder to remove, but she managed to help him slide them off without too much trouble. There was a slight shirring sound, a soft thud, and the shimmering mithril shirt landed atop the heap of black.

"Come," she said, dancing into the pool, "let me show you my secrets."

He carelessly deposited the last of his clothes, although he took the time to move his sword to the top of the mass of garments. Seconds later there was a distinct splash, and a small, rippling wave of water made its way towards her.

Ariashal watched, fascinated, as he drew near. She was used to his invisibility, but somehow she had expected that things would be different in the water. She had imagined that there would be some sort of indication of his presence, some sort of space or hole in the water where he stood. Instead there was nothing, only a strange refraction of light, much as one from a faceted jewel.

"I thought I would be able to see you." She could not hide her disappointment.

The surge of water halted, sending ripples across the surface of the pool. "Nay, my lady queen, tis not to be. In water or out, we cannot be seen by aught but our own. Your body, however," he added, lust in his voice, "I can now see quite well. You are indeed a glorious sight!"

Blushing, delighted, she turned and half-danced, half-waded towards the cave.

A hideous, high-pitched screech rent the air.

Ariashal froze. The very blood seemed to squeeze from her heart. She had heard that sound once before, and knew what it was. But this time it carried no threat or terror, no command to flee. No, it was a cry of pain, of agony, and, even, death.

Frantic, Ariashal spun around in time to see a flight of arrows strike where the King had been. The shafts shattered, scattering bits of wood and feather across the pool. He seemed to turn, as if to face his attackers; but before he could do anything another volley disintegrated against him. For a moment she thought she saw a faint outline of a man, ghostly and pale, standing waist deep in the water. He staggered forward. With a mighty splash he fell, face first, into the pool, vanishing beneath the surface.

"No!" she screamed, her voice echoing around the rocks.

Frantic, desperate, she slogged over to where he had been. She had to reach him before he drowned, before the water or its spirits took him from her forever. If she hurried she might be able to pull him to the safety of the shore.

Clouds of blood welled up to the surface. He must be close by. If only she could see him! She lunged into the water, her frenzied search stirring more blood into the pool.

A hand clapped over her mouth. Another seized her waist.

She bit, hard. The hand over her mouth loosened. "Let me go! I must save him!"

"He is already dead!"

As hard as she could she kicked her attacker. He seized her arm and pulled her around, dragging her through the bloody water. She caught a quick glimpse of brown leather, fine features, pale eyes. "Let me go!"

"No," said the elf. "You must come with us."

Ariashal lunged to one side, pulling the elf with her. Hauling her back, he wrenched her shoulder. Pain shot through her, driving her to fight harder. She had to reach the King, had to drag him to the shore before he drowned. "I must go!"

Another set of hands dug into her waist. Ariashal thrashed against them, nearly pulling the three of them into the depths of the pool. She managed to free one hand. Clawing, kicking, she raked her nails across the face of her nearest attacker. Blood spattered onto the water.

A sudden blow slammed into the back of her skull, and the world went black.  



	40. The Captive Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

The Captive Queen

 

 

 

 

"Has she awakened?"  
  
Ariashal's heart froze. She knew that voice. Closing her eyes even more tightly, she was determined not to let them know that she could hear them; they might let some important information slip. Above all, she must learn the fate of her King.  
  
"Not yet." That was one of the Elves; she recognized the voice of her attacker all too well.  
  
"And the other?"  
  
"We were able to get what you demanded, but we did not try for his head. We feared the arrival of the guards, and while we had already killed many of them, we did not wish to be slaughtered."  
.  
"Very well. Awaken her. I have much to ask."  
  
"Echui!" ordered the Elf.  
  
Obediently Ariashal opened her eyes. Her head still throbbed from the blow, but she forced herself to look up.  
  
She was in a cave, or, rather, a cave that had been roughly hewn into something approaching a square. In front of her was an old, battered wood table; from the carving on the legs she recognized as having once been at the Keep. A lone candle-lamp burned atop it, its flickering light casting weird shadows across the stone.  
  
They had tied her hands behind her, and bound her feet as well. Someone had also taken the precaution of tying her to a hard wooden chair. Whoever the King's attackers were, they wanted her alive and unable to flee.  
  
Behind her she could barely make out more whispered conversation. The Elves, it must be the Elves; she could catch a few words and phrases as they spoke. She could not get enough of their tongue to know exactly what they were planning for her, but she knew it would not be good.  
  
Someone else was coming; footsteps echoed on rock. Who was it? They had tied her in such as way theat she was unable to turn and face her attackers. It was probably just as well--she would spit and lunge at them, bite them if she could.  
  
"You may go," said the all-too-familiar voice. "Your reward awaits you."  
  
From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a hooded cloak, sword, boots. The man kept his face from her, even after he had taken his seat.  
  
"So." The man bent towards her. "I have slain the Witch-King, and the flower of Rhudaur has returned to her master."  
  
She looked up at her captor.  
  
"Ferion?" she shouted. "You? You could never slay him! No man could slay him!"  
  
"It was not I who fired the fatal shot, Ariashal. That was the Elves' doing. That, and this." He laid a plain arrow on the table, its head glinting dully in the light. "I found a smith in Cardolan willing to make weapons for me. Weapons empowered with one thing only: to slay the Nazgul. And I must say they worked better than I had hoped."  
  
She stared at the arrow. It was a simple thing, an arrow like any other, with shaft, fletching and head; and yet this same simple thing had destroyed her life, shattered her family, stolen her lord from her.  
  
"I was pleased to see you had taken an interest in our old grotto," continued Ferion. "Did you think I had forgotten our old amusements? I hoped that, once you started to repair it, you would eventually bring your family there as well. And I was right. My spies watched you and your husband with the children. I was beginning to believe that you would never get him there alone."  
  
Herumor! They did not know about Herumor, and they must never know of Herumor, for while he lived he would protect the children. She managed to keep from speaking.  
  
"When they told me that you were there alone with him, I knew it was my chance." Smirking, he retrieved the arrow. "It was very kind of you to get him to disrobe for us. That mithril shirt would have never been pierced."  
  
Desperate, she grasped at the last bit of hope she had. "I do not believe you. I do not believe that you have slain him!"  
  
"No?" He stood. "And what do you make of this?"  
  
Triumphantly he opened his hand and let something fall to the table.  
  
The black opal ring.  
  
Ariashal fought to breathe. It seemed as though her heart and lungs had ceased to work; she could draw no air. He was dead, her lord was truly dead. All strength left her. If not for the rope she would have collapsed onto the floor.  
  
"I have his armor and sword, too, if you would like to see them. That mithril shirt will do well for me."  
  
"Ferion," she whispered, her voice breaking, "why? Why have you done this?"  
  
"Why?" He scooped up the ring. "That thing you called husband was the most evil creature in all of Middle-Earth! His destruction assures that Rhudaur will again know its rightful King."  
  
"Rightful king?" She managed to find her voice. "Rightful King? After what you had done to the land? How can you call yourself king? It was you who let the kingdom collapse into poverty and ruin! The King has worked hard to right that wrong!"  
  
"What wrong? I am King of Rhudaur. I rule the land as I see fit."  
  
"King? The only reason you are King is because you murdered our father!"  
  
"What makes you think that? He was old and sick. It was his time to die."  
  
"And my husband?" she demanded. "Was he old and sick as well?"  
  
"You do not understand what you are saying." Ferion toyed with the ring. "By slaying the Nazgul we have rid Middle Earth of the last of its evils."  
  
"Rid? How can you say that? Sauron lives still!"  
  
"You lie!" Setting the ring down, he strolled towards her. "The Nazgul poisoned your mind. You would believe whatever he told you, no matter how baseless."  
  
"He never lied to me."  
  
"And you believe that?" Ferion laughed. The ugly sound echoed harshly on the rock. "You sincerely believe that, after thousands of years of corruption, he became pure and good in your arms? If that is so, then we must use your charms on more men! And your charms, my sister, are quite worthy."  
  
Horrified, she realized that all she had on was the thin chemise she had worn into the pool. Torn and dirty, it exposed more of her than she wanted. Vainly she tried to cover herself.  
  
Eyes narrowed, he studied her closely. "Yes, my fair sister, your husband did a fine job of preserving your beauty. No one would ever know that you had borne children. Look at me! He has kept your face young, too. Tis a pity you are my sister. I think I would much like having you."  
  
"Filthy swine!" She managed to jerk the chair away from him. "Leave me alone!"  
  
"Why? You are mine now, to do with what I will."  
  
"You slaughtered my husband so that you might have me?"  
  
"No." Ferion bent over her. "No, I had him killed so that I might regain my kingdom. But now that I see you--now that I see what you have become--why not? Turin Dragonslayer took his sister to wife."  
  
"To the destruction of both!" Frantic, she forced the chair to lurch aside. "Let me go!"  
  
"Go? Go where? You are here now, with me. No one will ever know if I do not wish them to know."  
  
"You cannot keep me here! My son will find me and punish you!"  
  
"Your son? He is lucky to be alive. I gave orders for the Nazgul's spawn to die."  
  
"So it was not enough for you to kill my husband," she hissed. "You wanted my children dead too!"  
  
"Of course, Ariashal. They are a threat while they live." He strolled towards the table. "Now, though, that threat is lessened. Without their father to instruct them, they are far more malleable. They can be trusted to return to Carn Dum, where they can rule their frozen city."  
  
"So you will let them leave?"  
  
"There is no longer any profit in their demise. So yes, they will go home. But my grandchildren will be returned to me."  
  
"You? You neglected them! They were filthy and starving when they came to us!"  
  
"Your husband forced that upon us."  
  
"And I suppose he also forced you to dine off gold!"  
  
Ferion stopped. "You are beginning to annoy me, sister. You are no longer in a position to say or do anything. I will have word sent to the Keep, and tomorrow we will meet with that steward of your late husband. We will make a treaty then."  
  
"He will want proof that I am well."  
  
"And proof he will have. I will bring you with me, to show that you are unharmed. And for your sake, you had best be in good spirits."  
  
"Then you had best free me!"  
  
"Free you?" Leering, he sauntered over to her. "Oh, you will be free. I will put you in a room where you will be free to walk and sleep."  
  
"And if I should escape?"  
  
He laughed again. "You think you will escape? Consider that these caves are full of men, my fair sister. And they are not all as particular as I am."  
  
Someone was coming. Ferion dragged Ariashal's chair back, so that she could not see the new arrival.  
  
"My Lord." The voice was hard, with a touch of sinister mirth.  
  
Ariashal managed to turn her head. She caught a glimpse of a brown tunic, lightly spattered with fresh blood.  
  
"Yes?" demanded Ferion.  
  
"The Elves have been--rewarded."  
  
"Very good. My fair sister has been expressing her delight at her rescue."  
  
"Is that so." He shifted closer. His heavy beard reeked of cheap ale. "Pretty girl, ain't she?"  
  
"Oh, yes, very much so. And she will be staying with us. Has her room been made ready?"  
  
"Yes." He snickered.  
  
"Very good. I will be guiding her there shortly. I expect that she will wish to dine alone with me tonight. She has had a trying day. You may go now."  
  
"All right." The man withdrew, whistling as he left.  
  
"Listen to me." Ferion bent over her. "I do not wish to put you on display for all the men to see. I will cover you with my cloak to bring you to your room. Once there, you will stay inside until I come for you. You will not scream, or try to escape. Not that you would get very far," he added. "The Hillmen have been without their women for a long time, and you, my sweet sister, are far finer than any woman they know."  
  
Ariashal sat still while her brother cut her free. She said nothing as he draped his cloak over her, did not move while he pulled the hood over her face. When he ushered her out of the room, she walked quietly.  
  
He led her into a large, natural cavern room, where many men had spread out bedrolls to make a crude barracks. Weapons were stacked along one wall, blades and bows alike; quivers of arrows were stowed in a heap. Several lanterns and torches were hung around the walls, their yellow light lost in the upper reaches of the cave. A few iron braziers were alight, glowing hellishly red in the gloom.  
  
Ariashal stopped.  
  
Was she not Queen? These men were her subjects, were they not? These were her soldiers to command, not Ferion the traitor's. For a moment she considered tossing aside the hood, revealing herself to them, commanding them to obey their Queen. And they would have no choice but to follow her, for she was their rightful ruler. She would be Regent, now, ruling in Imrahil's name; but she was still Queen.  
  
A sudden burst of laughter and swearing caught her attention. Some of the men had been gambling, and their game had just broken up. The sight of the sweaty, filthy, heavily-bearded Hillmen jolted her back to reality. She might be Queen, but in here she would be nothing more to them than a rough tumble, to be used quickly and handed over to the next man in line. Ariashal lowered her head and followed Ferion from the room.  
  
He led her through some narrow passages, past a room where some men seemed to be preparing food, down a steep incline, and finally into a small chamber. Its sole occupant, an elderly, one-eyed man, lurched to his feet as they approached.  
  
"This is our new prisoner," explained Ferion. "No one is to bother him in any way. I alone will speak to him. Do you understand?"  
  
Curious, the old man eyed Ariashal. "Did you say ‘him', sir?"  
  
"Yes, fool! Ask again and you will lose that other eye."  
  
The old man shambled backwards, finally dropping to his chair.  
  
"Come along," ordered Ferion.  
  
Ariashal could make out a rough corridor, could just see a row of four doors leading off into the darkness. How many more there might be, she could not tell. Ferion took her to the second room and pushed her inside.  
  
This was, indeed, a cell. A small lantern hung from the ceiling, its cheerless light illuminating an old cot, some blankets, and a small bucket. On the cot was a basket with some apples, a chunk of bread, and a leather-wrapped bottle. The room itself was only slightly longer than the cot, and perhaps twice as wide.  
  
"You will stay here," said Ferion, his hands on her shoulders. "There is some food for you, and water. I will come for you when I have to go to see Adzuphel, that steward of yours. I think you know better than to try to escape, but I will lock you in anyway. Oh, and one more thing."  
  
"What?"  
  
"My cloak." He roughly pulled it off her, tearing her dress even more severely. "Good night."  
  
She listened as the door closed behind her, as the key turned in the lock, as his footsteps faded away. For a moment she stood still, until the full horror of what had happened crushed onto her. Shaking, sobbing, she collapsed onto the cot and cried.  
  



	41. To the Victor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

To the Victor

 

 

Ariashal stood on the white sand beach.  
  
A short distance off the King walked away from her, sand still clinging to his black cloak. She called to him, but he ignored her, instead continuing on towards the palomino stallion. Angry now, she called again; but it was clear that he had no intention of responding. She watched, shocked, as he adjusted the horse's bridle and led the animal off. In one fluid motion, he gracefully swept up into the saddle and began to ride away.  
  
Hurt, confused, she ran after him. The sand here was much deeper than she remembered; it seemed almost to be sucking her down, deliberately trying to keep her from reaching him. She struggled on. Soon the sand was at her knees, then her thighs. She could no longer even see the King; he had vanished into the haze-covered hills.  
  
Desperate, she lurched forward.  
  
The sand collapsed beneath her.  
  
She was falling now, dropping into a huge cavern, sand cascading around her. She could not see a bottom; she could see nothing at all. Plunging to her doom, down, ever down, nothing but sand and gloom and empty air.  
  
Panicked, Ariashal screamed.  
  
The sand vanished. A dream, she realized; a dream, a horrible dream, but nothing more than that. She was safe at the King's side, safe in her bed--  
  
No.  
  
She was in the tiny cell, lying on the cot.  
  
The candle still gave its dim yellow light, the blankets were still worn and rough. How long had she slept? An hour? Three? All night? There was no way to tell. She pulled the blankets over her shoulders, huddling against the sickly dampness of the cell.  
  
She had hoped, desperately, that the events of the last several hours had been nightmares; that she would awaken, warm and safe, at his side. They would share some small talk before readying for the day, and she would await his evening attentions. But no. It was not to be, and would never be again.  
  
If only she had kept him away from the grotto! How could she have been stupid enough to think that they could be there in safety? Ten guards were slaughtered; it was only a miracle that Ferion's assassins had not struck sooner. Why, why, why had they not? Then it would be Herumor who lay at the bottom of the pool, and not the King. If they had only slain Herumor! Then she would be back with the King. Or even--the thought flashed to her--even losing the children would be better than losing the King.  
  
No! She did not mean that. She knew she did not mean that, and for a moment hated herself for even thinking that. And she needed Herumor alive, needed to know that there was someone who could protect the children against their enemies. No, if someone was to die, better it be her-- she was the least important of all.  
  
The movement hurt her head. She tried to sit up, hoping that her headache would ease. The back of her head still throbbed from the blow, and she was more than a touch nauseated. It had been hours since she had eaten, which was not helping her either. She glanced at the basket of food. Apart from the water, she had left it untouched, even though she knew Ferion had not bothered to poison it. No, he needed her alive, at least for a few days.  
  
Eating the bread settled her stomach somewhat. As she ate her headache also abated, though the dull pounding would not cease. Certain now that she would be able to keep food down, she began to work on the apples.  
  
Ariashal considered her situation. She was barefoot; on her left toes was some dried blood, probably from stumbling along the stone floor. Her chemise was almost completely useless. Made of fine, almost transparent linen, it was never meant to be worn in this manner; its purpose was seduction, not concealment. Yesterday's rough handling had torn it nearly in half. Now it was split open from the neck to the hemline; every time she moved her breasts spilled out. She would have to do something to cover herself before Ferion returned.  
  
For a few moments she studied the blankets. They might be old and worn, but they had no holes. And there was nothing in here which she might use to tear one open. No, she would have to think of something else.  
  
What about the old man? Perhaps--perhaps she could lure him into the cell with her. Then she could shove the bottle into his remaining eye, and before he could recover she could beat him with the bucket. Once he was disabled, she could take his clothes, lock him into the cell, and be free. Yes! This she could do.  
  
She stood up. The sudden movement made her dizzy; she grabbed the wall to keep from falling. After a moment she managed to take a single, unsteady step. The floor was still moving, still sliding beneath her. Frightened, she sat back down.  
  
What was wrong? Perhaps the food _was_ poisoned, after all. Or perhaps it was some sort of residual effect--had the Elves cast a spell on her, to keep her unconscious while they transported her to Ferion? Or could it be something else?  
  
One time Adrahil had been chasing his brother around the garden. Imrahil ducked behind a tree, and Adrahil slammed headlong into its trunk. He was knocked out instantly. The King had carried him inside, where he carefully examined the boy. It was, he explained, serious but not deadly; Adrahil would be dizzy for some time, and probably feel weak and sick as well. He would need to rest, and could not play or run about for several days.  
  
Perhaps something similar had happened to her, too. It would explain the headache, the nausea, the vertigo. If that were true, if she had really been injured in the same manner as Adrahil, then she would be in no condition to fight her way out of here. She would not even really be able to disarm the old man. No, he would be able to overpower her, and then she would be completely at his mercy. And she already knew what he would try to do.

Someone was coming; footsteps echoed on the rock floor. Ariashal took the least worn of the blankets and swirled it around her shoulders, wrapping herself in it. It was not a perfect shawl, but it would have to do.

The lock clanked as the key was turned. Instinctively she drew the blanket tighter.  
  
Ferion swung the door open.  
  
"Well," he began, "I see you are awake. And you have eaten. I trust you had a restful evening? Good."  
  
She did not deign to speak. If only she could form arrows with her gaze! She would fill him full of poisoned barbs, until his body was so riddled with them that he was crushed beneath their weight and his blood drained away. Never had she hated anything as deeply as she now hated her brother.  
  
"I have my cloak for you to wear," he continued smoothly. "You will accompany me to my quarters, and there you will be dressed in something other than that blanket. We must meet with your old steward today."  
  
Cloaked and hooded, she obediently followed him from the cell. To her surprise, the old man was gone, replaced with a much younger, sturdier man. She was suddenly grateful for the weakness of her limbs. In her current condition she would have been no match for him.  
  
They followed the path she remembered from yesterday, crossing several large rooms that seemed to be used for storage before coming to a heavy wooden door. Guards flanking it saluted Ferion as they approached. He acknowledged them with a curt nod and ushered Ariashal into his quarters.  
  
His rooms were large and reasonably well-furnished. One room had a substantial table, some chests, and a chair; further on, she could see a heavy wooden bed partially concealed behind some curtains. Overhead an oil lamp burned brightly. He had salvaged some of the worn carpets from the keep, using them to line his rooms against the creeping damp. On the table was a small heap of papers and scrolls; she could see a crude map of the general area lying on top.  
  
Carefully laid out at the opposite end of the table were the King's mithril shirt, sword and ring.  
  
She nearly collapsed at the sight of her husband's belongings displayed as trophies. Ariashal forced her self to stay standing. She must not show weakness, not here, not now; she must stay strong, until she was free of this place and back with Adzuphel, Herumor and her children. Swallowing, she managed to walk onwards.  
  
Resting on the table, the black opal gleamed with a hungry, almost savage, fire. Was it looking for a new master? She shuddered at the thought of Ferion wielding the ring. What had the King said? _A man must master the ring, else the ring will master the man._  
  
Ferion closed the door. "I have some things for you to wear."  
  
She looked over at the bed. An old gray tunic, a patched shirt and some stained slippers had been carelessly heaped at the end. Gingerly she picked up the shirt, inspecting it for lice, or worse. Patched it might be, but at least it was clean.  
  
"Put them on."  
  
"There is no place to wash."  
  
He snickered. "The Queen desires her bath, does she? Not here. You will wear those, and be glad for them. Get dressed!"  
  
Ariashal turned to him. "Not with you watching."  
  
He laughed. The sound sickened her.  
  
"I have no intentions of sampling you just yet. I have other plans for you."  
  
Her heart froze. "What? What do you mean?"  
  
He laughed again. "You will see, my fair sister. Now get dressed."  
  
She let the blanket fall. For a moment she considered abandoning the chemise, but decided against it; it was the last thing she had worn near the King, and it was somehow comforting to know he had touched it. Instead she pulled the shirt on, hauled the tunic over her head, slid her feet into the shoes. The tunic was too broad in the shoulders for her; it kept slipping down. Ferion rummaged in one of the chests until he found an old leather belt. She cinched it as tightly as she could, hoping it would keep the tunic more or less in place.  
  
Ferion draped the cloak over her. "Come along. We must meet with Adzuphel."  
  
Obediently she moved towards the door. Ferion retrieved the King's personal effects. "I will need to show these to prove that I have slain the Witch-king, and then I intend to keep them as a legacy for Rhudaur."  
  
"Those are not yours."  
  
"Oh, but they are, my fair sister. I slew him. These are now mine."  
  
"They belong to the King of Angmar." She blocked the door. "You must give them to Adzuphel for my son."  
  
"Why? I have them. Is that not proof enough of my right to them?"  
  
"No, it is not." She folded her arms across her chest. "You must return them to my son!"  
  
"Very well." Ferion's wolfish grin sickened her. He put the sword and shirt back on the table. "Your son can have those. But not the ring. That I will keep."

"You do not know what you are saying!"  
  
"Oh, yes I do. I know what this ring can do. I know it can unleash powers beyond the grasp of mortal men. And I know that you know how to use it."  
  
"I know nothing about that!" She hoped she sounded sincere.  
  
"I do not believe you. I think the Nazgul told you some of its secrets. And I think you can tell those secrets to me."  
  
"Even if I knew how to use it, I would never tell you!"  
  
Ferion closed on her. "There has to be more to it than merely putting it on my finger. He must have told you something. And you will tell me."  
  
"And if I do not?"

He hit her, hard.  
  
Ariashal's head snapped back. Blood trickled from her mouth.  
  
Ferion pulled her close; close enough to kiss.

"You will tell me what you know," he whispered, "else I will forget my manners. And when I have finished with you, I doubt my men will remember their manners, either. Am I understood?"  
  
"Yes," she whimpered through the blood.  
  
"Now then." He released her. "What must I do?"

Desperate, she tried to think. She must not let him claim the ring. "He said--he said that there was--there was only one way to take it. He said--" she grasped at the only idea she had. "He said you--you put it on, and said--he said you had to promise your kingdom to Sauron."  
  
"Sauron is dead." Ferion stroked the ring. Blue and green swirled in the stone. "So that will not be necessary. And even if it were--that is a small price to pay for such power. There must have been more."  
  
"You must--you must say your name."  
  
"And that was all?"  
  
She nodded, one hand cupped over her still-bleeding mouth. "Yes. He only--he only told me once. But that--that was all he said."  
  
Ferion, triumphant, strode to the center of the room. "Very well. Now you will see me fulfill my destiny. Now you will see a new King of the north!"  
  
He held the ring aloft. The opal glittered savagely. "I, Ferion, King of Rhudaur, claim this ring!" He slipped it onto his finger.  
  
And disappeared.  
  
"This is--strange." Ferion sounded awed. "Nothing is the same, and yet nothing is truly different. Except for you. I cannot see you."  
  
"You can see my clothes."  
  
"Yes, but not you. And I can see--I can see other things, too."  
  
She felt the rush of air as he walked by her.  
  
"There are--things--spirits--they must be spirits. I can see them as though they were flesh." He stood near the door, his breathing close enough for Ariashal to hear. "Yes, they can be seen. I always thought such things were children's tales."  
  
She listened as he wandered off. The idea that he had the ring sickened her. She had seen what it had done to Herumor and the King--proud, strong men. Ferion would use it to destroy what was left of Rhudaur, and then take Cardolan and Arthedain as well. They would fall prey to his incompetence, until Sauron brought him to heel and crushed him into subservience. Ferion had neither the character nor the courage to fight Sauron. He might, she realized, actually relish serving the Dark Lord.  
  
"What?" Ferion called from the table. "What are those? What is--No! No! Go away!"  
  
She could hear a soft rustling, a whispering in the air. Cold breezes slipped past her face.  
  
"No!" Ferion's panicked screams filled the room. "NO!"  
  
Someone crashed into a chest. Papers scattered into the air.  
  
"Get away!"  
  
The chair smashed to the floor. Ariashal heard cloth ripping apart.  
  
"Damn you! You are dead! I saw you die!"  
  
The whisperings had turned into a low howl. Ariashal could see strange, filmy clouds swirling across the room.  
  
"Leave me!" The curtains ripped free from the bed. "I slew you! Stay away!"

A wild, hissing screech filled the room. Icy winds slammed into Ariashal. Instinctively she huddled near the door.  
  
"NO!" The chair flew through the air, shattering against the wall. "Go away!"  
  
Something gold flashed across the floor, rolling to a stop at her feet.  
  
For a moment the whirling clouds twisted together into a malevolent vortex. Ariashal heard a loud CRACK, as though lightning had exploded above her. There was a strange stench, as if something had burnt; and the vortex disappeared.  
  
Shaking, disheveled, Ferion stood before her. His clothes were torn; blood ran from a gash on his cheek. "That thing!" His scream echoed around the room. "That--that --that thing is damned! It is cursed!"  
  
Ariashal said nothing.  
  
"You knew! You knew it was cursed! And you did nothing!"  
  
"I told you not to touch it!" she shouted. "You would not listen!"  
  
He stared at her, his eyes still fear-widened. "I do not--I do not want that thing near me!"  
  
She picked up the ring. It felt warm, unnaturally so; the colors of the opal seethed and writhed. Ferion could never master this ring.  
  
"Your son--your son can have that. I will not have that--that thing in Rhudaur!"  
  
"And his other gear?" Ariashal held her gaze steady. "That too will be returned to my son."  
  
"Very well." Ferion held his bleeding cheek. "I will have none of his cursed arms. Angmar may have them, and may their damnation remain in Carn Dum!"  
  



	42. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

 

 

Ariashal could not believe how close they were to the Keep.

Ferion's stronghold was in one of the hills, overlooking the Keep; she remembered riding over this very hill on the day that she and the King had arrived. He had hidden the entrance behind brush and rocks; it was impossible to see if one did not know precisely where to look. How long had he inhabited this place? Had he, she wondered, even kept spies here when she first entered the Keep? Probably; he could not have outfitted the place that thoroughly in so short amount of time.

She studied the hill, the plains before the walls, the entire approach to the Keep. It was almost possible to run, racing down the hill. Losing her footing would mean she would only tumble faster, rolling ever quicker to the keep and the safety of her family. Angmarim banners hung proudly before the gates, their glossy red and black calling her, urging her to flee, to hurl herself forward, to escape from Ferion while she still could.

A hand gripped her shoulder. "I would not try to do anything foolish, my sweet sister." Ferion dug his fingers into her flesh. "Not if I wanted to see my children again. Do you understand me?"

"Yes." She resisted the desire to strike him.

"Good. Adzuphel will be here soon. And when he arrives, you will speak only when spoken to. You will not whine, or complain, or do anything which might upset me. For if you do, I will see to it that your children never reach the border of Angmar. Understand?"

Nodding, Ariashal closed her eyes. She must stay strong for her children.

 

 

For hours the sun beat down unmercifully. Ariashal's already-pounding head hurt even worse than before. How long were they going to stay out here? She longed to sit, but dared not move and anger Ferion. Perhaps he wanted to punish her by forcing her to stand out here, keeping her in the sun so that she would be too sick to give him any trouble.

Movement at the Keep caught her eye. She could see men, horses, an enclosed wagon. Banners rippled in the breeze.

Ferion glanced at the sun. "Adzuphel is quite punctual, I see. Soon this will all be over."

Ariashal fought down the urge to scream at him. He had kept her out here for the sole purpose of tormenting her. What she would not give to be alone with him while knowing that her children were safe! Ferion would learn the meaning of torment.

A herald, bearing the banner of Angmar, rode towards them. Behind him was Adzuphel, riding his sturdy bay; both steward and horse were resplendent in black, red and gold. Flanking Adzuphel were some guards, while the small wagon trundled along at the rear.

"I see he did as he was told," muttered Ferion. "That is wise."

 

 

Ariashal paid no attention to the heralds, the fanfares, the honorifics. Nausea roiled within her. Closing her eyes, she forced her stomach to be still, to spare her the indignity of vomiting in front of Ferion. He must not know how weak she was.

"Greetings," began Ferion.

"Silence!" snarled Adzuphel. "What have you done to the Queen?"

Ariashal opened her eyes. Adzuphel, strong, proud in red and black, sword at his side, glared at her brother.

"I have done nothing!"

"Indeed." Adzuphel strode towards her. "Are you well, Your Majesty? Has any evil befallen you?"

"Only the murder of my husband."

Ferion dug his fingers deeper into her flesh.

"A great sorrow and tragedy has befallen the Kingdom of Angmar," Adzuphel agreed. "I have brought a wagon with clothes and other necessities for Your Majesty's comfort. You may go and change into something more suitable."

"I have not agreed to that," said Ferion.

Adzuphel turned to him, eyes blazing. "You will not permit your sister to stand in the sun, dressed like a common camp follower, any longer. She will be dressed as the Queen she is."

"Very well," Ferion finally released her. "But first my men must search it."

Two of the scruffy Rhudaurians trotted off. The wagon rocked as they climbed aboard, pulling back the curtain to expose the interior. A moment later they returned.

"Nothing to report," said one.

Ferion gave her a shove. Ariashal stumbled towards the wagon. One of the Angmarim guards helped her onto it. She opened the red curtains and half-fell, half-crawled into the covered area. There were three chests, a large ewer of water, a basin, towels, and some large pillows on the floor It was neither as big nor elaborate as the one she had ridden in while coming to Rhudaur, but it was shelter from both Ferion and the brutal rays of the sun. Exhausted, ill, she collapsed onto the mercifully soft pillows.

For several minutes she lay still while the pounding in her head eased. Outside the exchange between Ferion and Adzuphel grew more heated. Ferion loudly denied any wrongdoing; had he not sheltered and succored his beloved sister in her time of grief?

Adzuphel sounded unmoved. "The Queen is ill and hurt. She will return with us to the Keep."

"No." Ferion was adamant. "She stays with me until you have withdrawn from the Keep and returned to Angmar."

"That is unacceptable."

Ariashal had often heard Adzuphel use that tone on reluctant guards or recalcitrant visitors; she knew he would stand his ground and eventually win. As long as he was here, Ferion would have no choice but to concede. Adzuphel would do whatever he needed to cow her brother.

She listened while Ferion laid out whatever specious argument came into his head, while Adzuphel deftly swatted them aside. Finally her brother gave up.

"I am holding her as hostage so that you will leave the Keep."

"You should have admitted that earlier. We will leave the Keep as soon as possible."

"No," said Ferion. "I want my Keep now. She stays with me until you have gone. My men will stand guard."

"As will the men of Angmar. She will not go unguarded into your den."

"She cannot stay out here!"

"She most certainly can. The carriage will house her quite comfortably for a day or so."

"Fine!" Ferion's snarl reverberated through the little cart. "She may stay in there until you are gone!"

For a few minutes Ariashal listened while they hammered out the precise number of guards she would receive before turning to the more mundane issues surrounding the withdrawal from the Keep. The issue of her accommodations settled, she turned her attention back to her temporary home.

She had seen a ewer of water along one side--yes! There it was, sweating in the still air of the carriage. She carefully opened it and began to drink. It felt as though the cold water was refilling every dried crack and crevice in her body; she could not recall the last time water tasted so good. She knew better than to drink too much as once. Instead she splashed water over her parched face, letting the drops cool her aching head.

Refreshed somewhat, she poured more of the cool water onto one of the towels for a simple sponge bath. As yesterday's dust disappeared, she began to feel better. Once she had exchanged the old tunic for a soft blue dress, she felt almost well enough to confront her brother. She folded the tunic into a neat square, leaving the torn chemise behind. It was tattered beyond any reasonable hope of repair, but she could not bring herself to part with the last thing held by her husband. Retrieving the ring, she carefully parted the curtain and rejoined the men.

They had just finished debating the number and placement of her guards when she reached them. Adzuphel bowed deeply to her. "I trust you are well, Your Majesty."

"Thank you, Lord Adzuphel. I am much better now."

"It has been decided that you will stay in the carriage until they have left the Keep." Ferion's bluntness and lack of concern for her did not escape Ariashal.

"I think it will be far better than a cell, yes."

"You were kept prisoner?" demanded Adzuphel.

The flash in Ferion's eyes warned her to say little. "I was not a true prisoner." She dared say no more, lest Ferion make good on his threat. "But this is far more to my liking."

"Very well."

"My lord," she continued, "I wish to know about my children. How are they? How do they fare?"

He sighed. "They miss you greatly, madame. As for their father--the shock and grief they feel is so deep that they can barely speak. They will be much happier when you are returned to us."

"As will I, my lord. I must know--how fares the young king?"

He looked down. "Prince--King--Imrahil is much grieved by the loss of the King, as are we all, madame. He must take up crown and scepter, yet he is reluctant to do so while you are absent."

"I will be home soon enough," she soothed. "You must tell him that, for the good of the kingdom, he must accept the crown. You must tell him--you must tell him his father would want him to be strong. He would want to know that his son was strong enough for the task."

"I will tell him." Adzuphel's voice betrayed his sadness. "In truth, madame, it would be better if it was you who spoke with him."

"She will be there soon enough." Ferion cut between them. "I have some things which may be of interest to your new king. Here." He shoved the mithril shirt and great sword at Adzuphel.

Adzuphel took them away from Ferion gently, as though they were more fragile than glass. Carefully, reverently, he refolded the shirt and took up the sword. "Never did I think that this day would come," he murmured.

"Come it has," said Ferion, "and evil has been driven from this land. Take your relics and go. The Queen will be yours soon enough."

Adzuphel did not move. "One day, Ferion, I hope to meet under less formal conditions."

"I hope so too, old man."

"Enough!" Ariashal turned to Adzuphel. "My lord, I have something which must go to the new king. I have here his father's ring."

Ferion flinched, shrinking away as the black opal glittered in the sun.

"He must keep it, as a memento of his father," she continued. "But never, never must he wear it. This was his father's wish. And I would see it obeyed."

Adzuphel studied the gleaming jewel before slipping it into his purse. "It will be his, madame, and I swear to you that I will never permit him to wear it."

"Well!" Ferion stepped up, confident again now that the ring was gone. "Now that all has been settled, you will leave."

"Not until I have seen the Queen safely installed in her carriage."

"Very well," snarled Ferion. "Let us go and put you away, shall we, my sister?"

She walked between them, allowing Adzuphel to help her up the steps. Ferion opened the curtains, revealing the interior as she had left it. Satisfied, she slipped between the drapes, tying them shut behind her.

Ariashal drank more of the cold water before lying down on the pillows. Outside she could hear Adzuphel ride away. Even with the Angmarim guards, she suddenly felt extremely vulnerable. If only he could have stayed nearby! But she knew he must perform his duty, and his duty now was to care for the young king while supervising their removal from the Keep. At least she would be back with them in a day or so, and they could return to Carn Dum.

But there would be no triumph in their return to the great citadel. She could see Imrahil, his pale eyes shadowed by a responsibility thrust upon him long before he was prepared to accept it. How somber, how sober he would have to be! No longer could he play with the others. His world would now be one of adults and their endless problems.

They would crown him in the great Throne Room at Carn Dum, where the trophies of his father's victories hung over the hall. There he would sit, proud and still, while they held his father's crown above his head. It would be far too large for the boy; but it would have to do until a new one was made. He would be given his father's shirt and sword, both meant for a man far larger than he would ever be; and they would praise him, and proclaim him king. And Imrahil himself would be a lost little boy, overwhelmed by events too great for someone so young to comprehend.

At least she would be there, as would all of his father's counselors. They would probably look to her and Adzuphel for guidance while Imrahil grew up; and she herself did not know how long that might take. And always there would the threat of war.

How desperately had she hoped to avoid this very situation! When she had finally gotten the King to admit his true nature, she had assumed, stupidly, that such a catastrophe would never come to pass. There was no need for them to prepare their children; the King was not going to die. They would have little kingdoms of their own, within the empire of their father. But never would they be replacing him on the throne of Angmar.

And what of Sauron? What would he do, once he learned the ring was masterless? Could Herumor and Adzuphel keep whatever he sent to claim it at bay? Khamul would be in no condition to retry it, but that did not rule out the others. And there were many more things he could send, or do, to pry the ring free. The walls of Carn Dum would have to prove themselves mighty indeed to keep the forces of Sauron out.

One of the pillows caught her eye. A vivid blue and white brocade, she recognized it from her bed at the Keep. Probably one of the women had added it to the carriage when packing her clothes. Ariashal reached for it, pulling it to her breast.

It had been warmed by the sun, and as she held it close she caught a faint scent.

The King.

She recognized it, would have known it in any crowd. For a moment it seemed as though he were still here with her, still close enough to hold and touch. If only she had left him alone! If only she had let the grotto rot and her childhood recede! But she had not, and now all she had left was this pillow and a torn chemise.

She buried her face in the brocade and cried.

 


	43. Return to the Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

Return to the Keep

 

 

 

Safe within her carriage, Ariashal watched the slow exile of the Angmarim from the Keep.  
  
The Orcs had left during the night, leaving behind nothing but litter and trampled grasses to mark their camp. Here and there she could see the wreckage of one of the Orcish tents, or the smoldering remains of their fires. Ferion's men were pleased to see the Orcs go, but she was not. She knew that the Orcs were unswervingly loyal to Angmar. Their departure meant she had one less ally in Rhudaur.  
  
From up here on the hill she could see the steady stream of wagons laden with furniture, foodstuffs, carpets. Some of the wagons she recognized as traveling from Carn Dum, but many were of much simpler construction and humbler in quality. Clearly the troops had requisitioned anything with wheels, and were now using these things to remove everything of value from the Keep.  
  
Amidst the wagons were the common folk, trundling their belongs away in handcarts and baskets. The very old and infirm rode in donkey carts, along with cages of chickens and geese. Children herded goats, sheep, pigs; every now and then an animal would break rank, only to be driven back to the flock. A few dogs drove the cattle along the road, their barking mingling with the bleats and cries of the others.  
  
Most of the troops had also broken camp, although their fields were considerably neater than the old Orcish campsite. Their wagons were traveling together, flanking the civilian migration. Troops marched ahead of the crowd, keeping the group in some semblance of order. Wolves trotting back and forth also patrolled the lines, their sleek gray bodies a blur of motion.  
  
Ferion had set up camp near the carriage, where he could also watch the proceedings. Every now and then he made some comment to whomever happened to be close by, and then fall back into silence.  
  
His presence unnerved Ariashal. She wondered what he hoped to prevent by sitting here. Surely he knew she was not going to try an escape. No, he was here because he knew it pained her to watch her people forced to leave under such humiliating circumstances. And she knew he wanted to see her in pain.

She refused to give him the satisfaction. Ignoring barbs and jibes was easier than she expected; she found them tiresome and juvenile rather than hurtful. Ferion slouched in his camp chair, smirking and joking with one of his men. Hatred rose in her. _My son will punish you,_ she thought, and that brought her great comfort.  
  
Somewhere around noon Ferion had a luncheon brought out. He made an ostentatious show of offering her fruit and bread, meats and pastries. Ariashal was too hungry to refuse. But she insisted that the guards be fed as well, which annoyed Ferion. And he was really in no position to deny her request; he did not want to be shown up in front of his own men by his sister. Chagrined, he ordered that more food and ale be brought from the kitchens.

Watching the guards eating and toasting her name gave her a great deal of satisfaction. Perhaps she could win them all over to her side, and then seek a means of gaining her freedom. Bind the people to you, the King had said; and bind them she would.

  
  
Shortly before nightfall the troops hauled the heavy gates closed, locking the remaining household in the Keep. In the distance Ariashal watched as the last of the day's stragglers disappeared over a hill, kicking clouds of dust into the deepening blue sky.  
  
"How many you reckon are left?" asked one of Ferion's guards.  
  
"Don' rightly know. Hey! You! Angmar!"  
  
One of the black-clad guards turned. "Yes?"

"How many you got in that castle?"

"More than enough."  
  
"For what?"  
  
Ariashal's heart skipped. She did not need her sole protectors getting into an argument that might lead to a brawl, or worse.  
  
"Enough to keep us safe." The man resumed his stance.  
  
"Is there, now." The Rhudaurian would not let it alone. "And is there enough to keep you safe here?"  
  
The Angmarim ignored the taunt.  
  
"Hey! Angmar! You hear me or not?"

_No,_ breathed Ariashal, _stop this, now, before there is a fight and someone is slain. Please, please, please stop._  
  
"You there!" snarled Ferion's aid. "Guard! Back to your post and mind your business."  
  
The Rhudaurian shrugged and wandered off.  
  
Ariashal closed her eyes, thankful that another crisis had been averted.

 

  
Shortly before noon of the next day, the last of the household of Angmar left the Keep.  
  
The new King and his court rode out early, riding in the carriage that had brought them in triumph to Rhudaur such a short while ago. Ariashal could make out Imrahil, bravely riding his little chestnut pony at the head of the household troops. She did not see Herumor amongst them, which was puzzling. Either he was riding in the carriage with the children, or he had ridden out with the orcs earlier. Perhaps--hope fluttered within her heart--perhaps he had stayed behind, hiding in the Keep to protect her. He could do that, she knew, a last act of loyalty for the King he loved and admired.  
  
Three horsemen rode away from the group, banners rippling in the air as they cantered up the hill. As they drew closer Ariashal recognized Adzuphel among them, his sturdy bay snorting as they rolled along.

Ferion lazily rose from his tent to greet them. She noticed that he did not even bother to put on clean clothes; he had worn the same ratty, filthy tunic for the last several days. This, then, was the future of Rhudaur--a man who could not even manage to bathe. Her late husband had believed that the King reflected the kingdom; a sentiment even her own father had shared. Ferion amply demonstrated how low Rhudaur had managed to fall, all within a matter of days.  
  
Ferion strolled over to her carriage. "It seems that your curse has finally been of value," he sneered. "Now I will have my kingdom back."  
  
She managed to say nothing, certainly not the _Just in time for you to finish destroying Rhudaur_ that came to her mind.  
  
Adzuphel and the others reined in their horses. Dismounting, they crossed to Ferion. "As you requested, we have evacuated the Keep. It is now yours for the taking."  
  
Ferion smiled. "Excellent. My men will examine it for traps, and then we will occupy it."  
  
"There are no traps waiting within," bristled Adzuphel.  
  
"So you say." Ferion laid a hand on Ariashal's carriage. "Still, my men will check and report back to me before we go further. Understood?"  
  
Adzuphel glanced at her. Ariashal met his gaze.

"Very well. Have your men ride now, and see that we have spoken the truth."  
  
Ferion ordered three men to examine the Keep for traps. As they rode away, he leaned over to Ariashal. "For the sake of your children, there had better be nothing amiss."  
  
She found her voice. "Adzuphel and my men are not like you, Ferion. We are not here to destroy Rhudaur."  
  
His eyes narrowed. "Remember, sweet sister, what it is I can destroy." He gave the carriage a shove and sauntered off.

 

  
  
It seemed to take hours for the men to return. Ariashal offered Adzuphel refreshment, an act of hospitality that Ferion tried to turn to his advantage. Adzuphel ignored him. Finally the three guards trudged back up the hill, sweating in the afternoon sun.  
  
"Well?" demanded Ferion.

"Nothing to report."

"Good. My men will take the Keep now." He glared at Adzuphel. "Your work here is done, old man. Get on your horse and leave while I am still in a good mood."

"We have met the bargain, and the Queen must come with us."  
  
Ferion snorted. "What kind of fool do you take me for? I know that as soon as I hand her to you, your men will attack. No. She goes to the Keep with me."  
  
"That was not our agreement."  
  
Ferion fingered the hilt of his sword. "I told you, old man, she stays with me until you have retreated to Angmar. That you have not yet done. Once you are gone, I will send her back."  
  
"The king will not like this!"  
  
"Your king is a little boy. And it is about time he grew up!"  
  
Adzuphel took the reins of his horse. "This treachery will not go unpunished."

"Treachery? If there was anyone who knew treachery, it was your former master. Now go, before I decide to kill you!"

Adzuphel turned his horse and galloped away, tiny clouds of dust hanging in the air behind him as he disappeared down the hill.

 

  
It took only a few hours for Ferion's men to retake the Keep.

Granted, they had far fewer provisions and furnishings to move than the court had owned; virtually everything could be carried by a single man. Only a few things needed heavier transport, and there were some horses and wagons to attend to that. They worked busily until after nightfall, when the bobbing torches lit the road into the Keep. Finally a faded Rhudaurian banner was unfurled, and the Keep was officially Ferion's.  
  
Ariashal and her carriage were brought into the courtyard. She tried not to think about the much happier progress that had brought her here so many months ago; tried not to look for the King and her children in every shadow and crevice. It was useless; she longed to see them, to hear the King's voice, reassuring her that the nightmare was over, that she was safe again in his arms. But it was not to be, and nothing would ever make things right again.

She was given a suite of rooms in the tower, the same ones formerly occupied by Herumor. It was comforting to know that her friend had been here; it was certainly better than staying in the rooms Khamul had used. Men brought in the pillows, chests, and other trappings from the carriage. She was given a cot, some old blankets, a table and a stool. A fire was lit, and she was left alone.  
  
Ariashal tried to think, to digest the last few days. Nothing seemed quite real; it was as though she were floating through a bizarre dream. And yet she knew that she was awake, and that she would not be able to flee from the disaster that had consumed her.

For she knew, now, that Ferion had no intention of permitting her to return to Angmar. He intended to keep her here as a hostage, in exchange for whatever he could wring from Carn Dum. How much would Adzuphel tolerate before severing ties and leaving her to her fate? She could not even begin to guess.

Someone rapped at the door. "Who is it?"  
  
"Me, your loving brother."  
  
She wanted to scream at him to leave, but knew it would be useless to do so. "You may enter."  
  
Ferion swung open the door. With him was a servant, bearing a small tray laden with food. The man placed it on the table and withdrew.  
  
There was another with Ferion, a younger man, tall like her brother, with eyes as gray as a storm cloud and just as cold. His long black hair fell over his shoulders, partially obscuring the insignia on his red tunic. He smiled wolfishly at her.  
  
Smiling, Ferion took her by the hand. "I want you to meet your new husband."


	44. The Prince of Cardolan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

The Prince of Cardolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ariashal staggered back from the door. Instinctively she clutched at her stomach, as though she had been stabbed.

"My sweet, lovely sister!" Ferion shoved his way into the room. "This is Armendil, a prince of Cardolan. He is here to take you as his wife."

She could not breathe. This was not possible. She had to do something, say something, anything, to prevent this travesty from going any further.

"Well?" prompted Ferion. "What do you say to him?"

Ariashal grasped at the first thought which came to her. "I--I am afraid that I am not well."

Armendil and Ferion exchanged glances. Ferion pressed closer. "What do you mean, you are not well??"

Not daring to get near the bed, she managed instead to sit on the stool. "I mean--I mean that I am _unwell_."

Ferion bent over her. "Is this some sort of trick to discredit me? What is the matter?"

Ariashal glared up at him. "I am a _woman,_ Ferion, and I am _unwell._ "

For a moment he stared at her, his face a mask of stupidity before breaking into a knowing grin. "I see. Very well. We can delay the wedding for a few days."

"Why?" asked Armendil. "What is the matter with her?"

Her brother's grin sickened her. "As I told you, despite her age she is still quite fertile. In a few days all will be right."

Armendil's expression changed from puzzled to amused. "I think I understand. I can wait for a lady as pretty as her." He made an exaggerated bow. "Even if she is--, ahh, _cursed._ " Smiling, the prince slipped from the room.

Ferion hesitated. "I will see if there is a woman here who will be able to care for you. That is what you need at this--delicate--time, is it not?"

"Yes. A woman to help me would be useful."

He stopped at the door. "I will see what I can find. Good evening, Ariashal."

She listened as he drew the door closed and the guards outside settled back into place.

She was doomed.

Any woman Ferion dredged up would almost certainly be under orders to observe her closely, and would soon report back to her master that Ariashal was perfectly fine, and quite capable of being married. She could just see the woman now. She would probably be a bedraggled, old camp follower, one who served the men in any way they wished. The idea of such a creature pawing through her laundry sickened Ariashal.

For a moment she steadied herself on the edge of the cot. She was still suffering from the blow to the head given by her abductors, and sudden movements tended to upset her equilibrium. Finally her head cleared, and she began to consider her plight.

She walked around the room, looking for something, anything that might help her. What was in her chest? Three dresses were folded inside it--two clean, and the one worn the other day. Then there was the one she currently wore. They would all need laundering soon. She had enough chemises and such to last a week before they would need to be dealt with. That would give her a few days, at least, before they discovered the ruse.

Someone knocked at the door.

Hurriedly Ariashal closed the chest. "Enter."

Ferion sauntered in, alone this time. He closed the door behind himself. "My men are looking for a woman to help you." He settled on the stool. "So. How are you feeling?"

"I have already told you."

Yes," he nodded, "that you have. Armendil is very disappointed. He wanted to get married tonight."

She seated herself on the cot. "I am sorry to have upset your plans."

"I imagine you are." He smiled. "Your curse has finally turned to my advantage. I have my kingdom back, and soon enough you will be adding Armendil's lands to mine."

"What?" Her head began to pound. "Suppose I refuse? Suppose I take refuge with the King of Cardolan?"

"Suppose your children never reach the border? Suppose Imrahil is cut down before he ever reaches manhood? And suppose that daughter of yours gets handed off to my men?"

"That would mean war!"

"Yes, it would. And I would have all of Arnor at my side. And Imladris, too."

"Imladris would not side with you after murdering those Elves!"

"My dear sister! Do you think all Elves come from Imladris? Besides, I did not murder them. It was the men of Angmar who killed them."

"Angmar?" She stared at him. "There were none of my men here!"

"Sweet, sweet Ariashal. All those years married to that--thing--and you are still as naive and stupid as ever."

"You will--you will claim that my men slew them!"

"No one in Imladris would believe otherwise, now, would they? Why would they take the word of the cursed queen of Angmar over that of a son of the house of Elros?"

"My husband was also of that line! And so are my sons! You do not have the only Numenorean blood in Middle-earth."

"Maybe not, but mine is the blood that matters most. No one knew the true identity of your late husband, for if they had, they would have been far quicker to join me in my quest. As it was I had to be certain before I had him killed. A pity that the Elves did not bring me his head. It would have brought a fine bounty from Master Elrond and Lord Glorfindel."

"Elves? They would never pay your blood money!"

"For the head of the Nazgul Lord? Come, sweet sister, you are not so naive as to think they would not want him dead."

"They did not know he was here!"

"Yes, that is true. They did not know that there was a Nazgul in their midst. But once you are re-married and silenced, they will know, and they will also know who delivered Middle-earth from this threat. And I will be rewarded."

"And if they do not believe you?"

"Believe me? Of course they will believe me!" His wolfish grin sickened her. "And I must tell you, two unarmed Elves are no match for thirty armed Angmarim. I am certain that there will be a song composed for the brave Elves who fought so gallantly against the men of the Nazgul and almost won. They slew twenty men before they finally fell." He shrugged. "I suppose that it would have been cheaper to have simply paid the Elves in silver."

She buried her face in her hands.

Ferion stood to go. "You are mine to do with as I wish. You will marry the Cardolani, and when you have killed him with your curse you will marry the next prince I find for you. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Good." He closed the door behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

For a long time she sat still, trying to decide what she must now do. There was no way that she could reach Adzuphel or Herumor and warn them of the threat. Ferion would get word to Imladris, and then there would be a war. That was what he really wanted--a war between Imladris and Angmar. With Imrahil on the throne they would be hard-pressed to keep from being overwhelmed. He was a bright boy, but he was so young and inexperienced! Even Adzuphel and Herumor would not be able to help him overcome the Elves.

The news that the Lord of the Nazgul had made his home in Carn Dum would unite the Elves in a hunt for the others. That would mean that Herumor would have to fight off an army determined to kill him. He was a competent warrior, but eventually he would have to decide if it was best to take Adzuphel and the children and flee Carn Dum rather than let them fall to the enemy, or if it would be better if he alone left. Imrahil would either be deprived of one of his best advisors, at a time when he would be most in need of advice; or he would be deprived of his throne.

And then there was Sauron.

What would he do? Would he send aid with Khamul, or would he let the kingdom fall to the Elves? He had no reason to help Angmar; he might well sit back and wait while the war played itself out.

Or--would he? Would he come to Imrahil, promising power and strength if he took up the ring? Imrahil knew nothing of his father's true nature, nothing of his tragic fate. He might well fall to the ring, giving Sauron a new Nazgul to control. With Imrahil enthroned, Sauron would wreak havoc in Angmar. Neither her husband nor Herumor had ever had anything but contempt for the way Sauron managed his lands. There was no reason to believe that he would do any better in Angmar.

And then there was her own fate to consider.

She was to be given to the Cardolani prince. That would last for--what, a year or so? Then he too would succumb to the curse. And after him there would be many more, all found for her by a brother who was whoring her out for some land.

Ariashal knew what her life with the Cardolani would be like. It would be like all of her earlier marriages, except that the Prince would be contemptuous of her, never fully trusting her or her motives. He would be rough with her, either to punish her or because he liked to exert his strength. And when there were no children, he would get abusive and angry. Then he would die, and the whole sorry cycle would be repeated.

In a way the entirety of her life had gone in a circle. She had left Rhudaur, married men who did not really want her, waited for them to die, and returned. Her first husband had never thought her good enough for him, and neither had his family. In their eyes she was scarcely better than a servant, there to provide an heir and be silent. With the Hillmen, she had been little more than companion to an impotent old man, catalyst for a murder. Her third husband had treated her like a slattern, using her quickly and savagely whenever he felt the urge, and finally riding off to die.

And then there was the King.

Ariashal had hoped, fervently, desperately, that he would be waiting for her in the carriage, and avenge all that had been done to her. How she had longed to see him rise, sword in hand, and strike Ferion and his followers from the face of the earth!

But it was not to be. She had seen his ring, held it in her hand. She knew he would not simply hand it over to Ferion, knew he would not willingly give it to some Elves. No, they had to have taken it from him, and for that to have happened he must have been dead. Had the arrows slain him quickly, she wondered, or had he drowned? And what had Herumor said about running water? Even if he had been alive when he dropped into the pool, the running water would soon have swept him away. He was gone--finally, absolutely, irretrievably gone. And with him went the last of her heart.

There were her children to consider. It turned her stomach to think of what they would be facing. Imrahil would have to somehow overcome both Sauron and Ferion, and he was too young, too inexperienced, too alone to do so successfully. Adrahil, strong and brave, would grow to manhood fighting constant wars, just as her own brothers had done. And like her brothers, he too would fall in battle, leaving a grieving widow and a kingdom bereft of his strength at arms. If Zimraphel were blessed, she would die young. Otherwise she would be a pawn, sent off to Ferion to buy peace. What Ferion and his minions would do to the Witch-king's daughter was too horrible to contemplate.

And through it all she would be sent from household to household, never really wanted, never fully trusted, used by men who would soon be dead, spreading her curse across the realms of Arnor. Eventually she would be too old to send off, and then she would either be shut up in some out-of-the-way rooms, or, worse still, given as a prize to some of the men.

Never again would she see her children. She would not see Imrahil crowned, nor Adrahil reach manhood, nor see Zimraphel off to the home of her husband. There would be no grandchildren to dote upon, no weddings to oversee. They were as if they were dead to her now.

Dead.

That was a thought.

She could kill Ferion, and her intended Prince. The Prince was doomed anyway, if he married her; she could simply do it quickly.

She looked over the tray of food. There was a small paring knife, nestled amongst the fruit.

She tested the tip. It was sharp. Good.

It was not big enough to kill, though. Not easily. She might be able to take out an eye, or slash a throat; but it would be impossible to do so with the force and quickness needed. Ferion would survive the attack, and then she would pay, and pay dearly. She had already seen the way he looked at her. Probably he would use her, beating her senseless and then passing her off to the Prince. And what the Prince would likely do then would be enough to make her wish for her own death.

Ariashal studied the gleaming blade. What good would it do her? None, really, except to guarantee a beating and probably a rape.

She closed her eyes, both against the pain of her headache and the horror of what was to come. She could not escape her fate, no matter what she tried. She was cursed, and damned.

But--the thought slowly took hold--she could deny them their prize.

Why not? She had nothing to live for, anyway. She would never again know anything like the exquisite pleasure brought by the King, never again ride in state, never again see the children whom she loved. All she had to look forward to was a long life of pain, torment, and grief.

Her King was dead. Of that she had no doubt. Perhaps, just perhaps, this way she could rejoin him. She would rather wander the tracts of the Void at his side than face the world without him.

The little knife trembled in her hand. It was not big enough to do any real damage against Ferion, but it would cut the veins of her wrists.

Ariashal closed her eyes. _Eru, forgive me_ , she prayed as she placed the tip of the blade against her flesh.  



	45. Passages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

**Passages**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Something creaked behind her.

Ariashal froze. Had Ferion found some secret way into her room? Knife at the ready, Ariashal whirled around. Her paring knife might not kill, but it would do well against her brother's smirking face.

But it was not Ferion who stood there.

Standing in front of an open doorway in the room's paneling was a tall figure, robed in black. "Herumor!" She flung the knife aside. "I thought--"

He held one hand up, to silence her. Obediently she stood still. A pale yellow light flashed around the room.

"Now," said the familiar voice, "we may speak."

" _My lord!_ " Her heart seemed almost to explode as she flew to him. "I--I thought you were dead!"

"Nay, my lady quee--"

She did not let him speak. Before he had finished the words she had seized him in a fierce kiss. For several long seconds she clung to him, willing that they might join fully and never again be apart. Finally he broke free.

"And after you called for Herumor! I thought I was unwanted."

"No!" she cried, clutching him. "Oh, my lord, I thought I had lost you forever!"

"Nay, Ariashal. Even if it meant that I must claw my way from the very pits of the Void, I would not leave you here to face these fiends alone."

"You mean--" her heart skipped-- "you mean you really are dead? You were killed?"

He gave a soft laugh. "Nay, my queen. I am not yet ghost, but merely wraith!"

"What happened? They had taken your ring!"

"Aye, madame, that they did." He settled onto the stool. "The Elves that shot me dragged me ashore, hunting for the ring. They saved me from drowning, though that was not their intent.

"Herumor found me, and brought me back to the Keep. And I fear I must tell you that Herumor was beginning to despair of me when Adzuphel returned with my ring. For though I hate what it has done, I confess that I am bound to it, and cannot let it go."

"Then it was you whom Ferion saw when he put on your ring!"

"He put on my ring? Fool!" The King's contempt was all too clear. "Nay, twas not I he saw, nor Herumor. Your father, it may have been; or else other, less pleasant phantoms from his past."

"He said that he had seen you, and knew you were dead!"

"As I said, Ariashal, he did not see me. I was here, wavering between worlds. And, to say the sooth, he would not know my countenance, for no mortal has seen me in many a year."

"I--I confess I had not thought on that."

"No matter. But the weapons used by the Elves have given me much to ponder. The men found as many shards of the elves' arrows as they could, and when we are back in Carn Dum I will examine them properly to see how they were made. Whoever fashioned them must be found and stopped, else the lives of us all will be forfeit."

"My lord," she murmured, gathering his head to her breasts. "I despaired of ever seeing you or our children again! I was--I was going to--"

"Do not worry, madame," he soothed. "Your father brought me word of your grief, and what he feared you would do. And so I came a quickly as I could, to stop you before you did something foolish."

"My father? He told you?"

"Aye, madame, he has been watching over you all this time. He it was who brought word of your imprisonment, and who guarded you so zealously while I was ill."

"My father? He never seemed to care much for me before." She sniffed back a tear. "I thought all he cared for was land!"

"He has had time to think about his treatment of you," said the King. "And he has come to realize his shortcomings. At least he has been able to rectify some of them."

"I did not know."

"He did not want you to know. As I said, he only came to me when I was well enough to act, and able to prevent you from foolishly harming yourself."

"It would not have been foolish! I would rather be dead than without you."

"There is no longer any need to fear that." He kissed her. "We are together, and all will again be well."

A sudden vision of Ferion came to her. "No, my lord! I fear all is not well."

"Why?" Gently he held both her hands in one of his. "What is amiss?"

As swiftly as she could, she told him of Ferion's plans for her marriage, of his friendship with the Cardolani, of his threats to their children, and how he would use his destruction of the Elves to provoke a war between Imladris and Angmar. She finished with the details of her ruse, and what she feared tomorrow would bring.

"Ill news indeed," said the King quietly. "Your father and some of the others will be able to prevent the sending of letters for a few days, but eventually word will reach Imladris. And I know that master Elrond will not hesitate to act against me. No. You are correct. Ferion must be stopped, and soon."

"What will you do?"

"I had hoped for a few more days, to reach my full strength. But it seems that cannot be achieved."

She laid her head against his. "What can I do to help you?"

"You will have to do what you must to convince Ferion that you agree with him." He drew a long breath. "You must tell Ferion that you have changed your mind. You will be ready to marry the Prince of Cardolan tomorrow evening."

"What? Marry that puppet of his? Never!"

"Stay, my queen, and listen. You must tell him that you will marry the prince. That will give us some time. Then, tomorrow night, I will be able to act. I will have had enough time to do the great spells needed, and by then should have the strength to keep the effects in hand."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Something which Ferion will find unpleasant." He sighed. "Under different circumstances, I would request Herumor's aid in this. But he is tending the children, and I do not want him removed from that post."

"The children! How are they?"

"I had to take Imrahil into my confidence, to let him know that, though I was ill, I was still King. That gave him the strength, I think, to carry out his part. The others know nothing. Although," he chuckled, "I doubt that Zimraphel will long be kept from the truth. She has too many spies amongst the spirits and animals!"

She could not help laughing at the thought of Zimraphel merrily chatting with ghosts and wolves.

"I warned your father about telling her anything, and while I know he will obey my wishes, there are others who are not so circumspect. Herumor should be able to keep them away, provided he does not have to deal with too many other distractions."

"And where will you be? How will you stay safe?"

"So you wish to know my secrets. Very well, my queen. Let me show you my lair."

She followed him to the panel in the wall. "I did not know this was here!"

"Nor does Ferion, else he would have imprisoned you elsewhere. Nay, twas your father who showed Herumor these passages. Many are the secrets the dead learn, for tis difficult indeed to hide things from them. These passages were built and forgotten long ago."

They descended into the darkness, Ariashal leaning against the King for guidance. The stairway curved down, finally opening into a small, square room, lit only by a single candle. No windows pierced the walls, only a second door, shrouded in gloom. A simple bed and table were here, along with the King's traveling box. On the table was a basket filled with foodstuffs, some bowls, and a large urn.

"Your father told Herumor of this place," explained the King. "When they brought me back here, they decided it would be safer if I stayed hidden. And so this room was made ready for me."

"Who knows of this?"

"Save me, the dead and Herumor? None. Imrahil was brought here secretly. While he was much pleased at the idea of the Keep having such passages, he was not permitted to explore them. And in truth, I do not know where they all lead. This doorway descends to the tombs."

She eyed it, uneasy. There was something unnerving about the proximity of the tombs that she could not shake.

"Do not be alarmed." He guessed her thoughts. "They are out patrolling the Keep. If anything is amiss, your father will speak to me."

"It is just that I--"

"That you find it disturbing. Twas disturbing to me, my queen, to awaken surrounded by your father and the others. I admit I was not quite certain if I had joined them permanently, or was still of two worlds." He undid the clasp of his cloak and draped it over the end of the bed. "I must rest, madame, if I am to be strong enough for tomorrow."

She took his hand. "Then let me stay with you."

"Very well." He settled onto the bed. Before he could draw the blankets over himself, Ariashal took them. He caught her hand. "What are you doing?"

"Taking care of you," she said, firmly stuffing the blankets around him. "You will permit me to tend you."

He sighed, and she thought she detected a slight touch of amusement in his tone. She did not care. She had almost lost him, and she would do all in her meager power to protect him. Lifting his heavy cloak from the end of the bed, she draped it over her shoulders and settled in to watch over him while he slept.

His breathing gradually settled into a regular rhythm. Every now and then he moved, and when he was again still she would rearrange the blankets covering him.

Ariashal tried to sort though the events of the last hour. She had come close, dangerously close, to killing herself needlessly. Why did she have so little faith in him? Adzuphel had asked her that, at the Hillmen's fort, and she had never been able to find an answer. And here, tonight, she had once again shown her inability to believe in his strength. Granted, she had much more cause this time, but still, she had doubted.

And what if she had slain herself? What then? Would she have awaited him, in the Halls of Mandos, until the day he finally fell? And what would happen then? Would she even be allowed to wait for him? Or would she be cast out, forced to wander the world, forever following him as a broken spirit?

And then there was the matter of his own fate. Eru promised that he would never cast aside his children, but she was not so sure that he would extend that promise to one such as the King. He might be forever banished to the Void, to lie in blackness and despair with the likes of Morgoth and his minions. Or she herself would be sent there, for the disobedience of her suicide, while he was set free. And there they would remain, and be forever parted.

She must not think of it now; it was too much for her. She gathered his hand into hers, buried her face on it, and cried.

 

 

 

 

Someone was speaking.

Ariashal, startled, sat up. She must have fallen asleep; she was on the bed, wrapped up in his cloak. Over on the table the candle sputtered and flared, sending weird shadows across the wall, illuminating the inky bulk of the King as he sat by the table.

"No," he said, his voice barely audible. "She sleeps still. Twas well that you warned me, for if I had tarried she might well have done the unthinkable. All is well now."

There was a soft whisper, a garbled whoosh of murmured sounds.

"She is? Very well. Ariashal, you may join me."

Uneasy, she made her way to his side. A feathery breeze stroked her face.

"What--what was--"

"Your father," explained the King. "He has come to tell me of movements within the Keep."

Ariashal dug her fingers into his shoulder. She fought down the urge to flee, screaming, from the unseen phantom.

"Yes, tis indeed a shame that her worth was never clear to you when you were ruling, King Turabar." The King shifted in his chair. "But mayhaps, if she had been more valued by you, she would never have come to me. And the loss of her company is one I would regret deeply. For she is a wise Queen and a fine mother, and her counsel is of great benefit to me."

She clung as fiercely as she could. Knowing that her King needed her gave her the strength to stay, ghosts or no.

. "Your men hid the papers? Excellent. That will help us greatly. How many are ready to join tomorrow?"

"How many what?" Ariashal's voice barely rose above a whisper.

"Your father is not the only one who has beseeched me, my Queen. For while I have been convalescing, I have received many supplicants who view me as their last, best hope for justice. And so there will be many dwellers of the world of shadow who will stand at my side."

"I see," she murmured, clinging tightly to him for support.

"Go, Turabar King," he continued. "Ready the army for tomorrow. And remind all that their day of justice is at hand."

The candle flared again. Ariashal felt a slight, cold breeze slip past her face. There was a soft rippling in the air, a slight familiar scent, and then the room fell still.

Softly, she started to speak. "Are we--"

"Alone?" finished the King. He lit a second candle, filling the room with its steady glow. "Yes, my queen. We are alone."

Crying, Ariashal slumped against him. "I--I cannot get accustomed to this! I expect to see him or hear him or--or something. I cannot abide these whispers and yet know he is gone!"

He gathered her into his arms. "But he is not gone, Ariashal. No one is every truly gone. The land remembers, and we carry them with us wherever we may go."

"That is not what I mean! You can see him! You can hear him!"

"Aye, that I can. And there are times, Ariashal, when being able to see them is no blessing. For when they come to me they are desperate and lost. They cannot go on, they cannot find peace. They can only long for someone to help them and set them free. They are just as tormented by their inability to reach you, as you are by your inability to speak with them. Their lot is not an enviable one."

"Do you think--do you think that I will--I will be able to at least see him before he goes?"

"I do not know, my lady queen. He may not wish to be seen in his current state. But I promise you this. I will at least ask him for you. Will that suffice?"

She caught her breath. "I--I suppose so."

"Then I will try. And you must promise me never to try anything as foolish as you did this night."

"I would rather be--"

"Do not say that! Do you not understand who else might hear you? Not all the phantoms who are nearby are to be trusted."

"You do not understand! When I have passed, what becomes of you? When will I ever again see you?"

For a long moment he was silent. "I--I do not know."

"Then you must understand that I would rather stay at your side as ghost than be lost away from you!"

"No!" he pulled her close. "Oh, no, Ariashal, that--that you do not want. I will not have you waiting, a shadow I can see but cannot touch. No, that is far, far crueler than you know. You will go, as you should, and be safe. I will not have you do otherwise."

"But I love you so! I do not want to be parted!"

"Ariashal." His voice was strange, unsteady. "Do you not think that I, too, have strong feelings? If I did not care for you, I would have gladly let slip from my bond to the earth, and gone to my fate. But I could not bear to leave you, any more than you wish to leave me."

Something warm splashed onto her face.

"My lord," she whispered, "you--"

"Say nothing!" he hissed, crushing her against his chest. She heard him fight to keep his sobs under control, his body shook from the effort. She could feel him weakening; he rocked and swayed in exhaustion. Alarmed, she realized now how much she was taking from him. What if he was too hurt to continue? She would have to calm him, before he was too spent to contain Ferion and his men.

"My lord, you must hear me," she said, gently stroking his face. "This is too much for you. I should go, lest I overtax your strength."

"No," he said, hoarse, "no. You will not harm me."

"But there is much you must yet do."

"That will come in good time." He seemed to have regained some mastery over himself. "My lord, I do not understand how an army of ghosts and phantoms will help you," she began. "What can they do against Ferion and his men? He is not alone. He has many Dunedain and even some Lesser Men with him. And he did manage to find Elves, too. How can you fight them all?"

He chuckled softly. "My queen, there is much you must learn about the spirit world. You must believe me when I tell you that there is no one better to secrete things than an inspired ghost. I assure you, those papers will never be found!"

She could not laugh with him. "But I do not speak of papers! I speak of you! What if they succeed in harming you again? What if they have more of those arrows? I nearly lost you once. I cannot bear the thought of having you taken from me!"

"Nor can I abide the thought of losing you. From the hand of another--or by your own."

She caught her breath. Why was she doubting him? He was here, he was alive; she had seen him cast great spells. All that remained was for her to be a source of strength for him. She managed to kiss him through the tears. "My lord, forgive me. I will never try anything so stupid again."

"Nay, my queen. Twas not stupidity that drove you." He gently returned her kiss. "But now I must needs rest, for tomorrow will come soon enough, and I must have my strength."

"Very well." She followed him back to the bed. "If--if I lay still, may I stay with you? I do not wish to be alone."

"Neither do I." He pulled the blankets aside. "You may join me, my lady queen."  



	46. Daybreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

Daybreak

 

 

 

 

Ariashal idly pulled the brush through her hair. She had much to think about.

Ferion was being unusually slow in responding to Ariashal's missive that she must see him, and swiftly. The guard who took the message was grim, silent, and unused to dealing with a woman who outranked him; but he did eventually take her letter. Now he had been gone at least an hour, probably closer to two.

Earlier that morning, she had been roused by the King and brought back here lest anyone should decide to check on her well-being. She had wanted to stay with him in the hidden room, but he had insisted; and in her heart she knew he was right. It would not do to have them searching the Keep for her. And so the King had led her back up the narrow stairs, inspected her room, and rekindled the fire, which had long since grown cold.

"Take heart, my queen," he told her, once the flames were leaping brightly. "The hour will be late before we will again meet. Fear not, for you are well-guarded, and I am but a short distance away."

"I will be well," she answered. "My lord, please--do not overtax yourself. I know you are ill yet. Do not do anything too strenuous."

"I am well enough, my queen. All I must do now is prepare." He gave her a swift kiss, and returned to his secret chamber.

She quickly wrote her note to Ferion, begging him to come and see her. Once that was sealed, she spent the rest of the morning curled up in the bed, waiting for someone to bring her breakfast. When a guard finally did bring her a basket with some hard rolls and fruit, she was relieved. She insisted that he take her message, and then waited for him to leave before digging in. She had not touched last night's food, and she was sorely in need of sustenance.

Once she had handed the note off to the unwilling guard, she was left with little to do but eat, ready herself, and think. The eating and preparing were simple enough. It was the thinking that proved disturbing.

Her life had been blessed, she realized now. Ever since she had gone to live in Angmar, there had been relatively little of a serious nature for her to do. There were the children and their education, of course, and she was in charge of that. There were gardens to be planted and clothes to embroider, parties to plan and guests to entertain. Someone had to approve of plays and music for the entertainment of the King and his court; someone had to ensure that the grand red castle was always as comfortable and inviting as possible. The King had entrusted all these things to her, and more. She had not been completely useless and idle.

But she had been sheltered.

She saw, now, how much her husband had kept from her. Not out of malice, but out of his intense desire to keep her safe. She was not permitted to interfere in the affairs of state, and in truth she had not really wanted to. She had wanted to stay sheltered, free of the vicious buffets of political winds. Ariashal had always been taught that such things were for the men to handle, and after her dealings with her other husbands, she had been only too happy to let the King take care of ruling Angmar.

Now that would have to change. She knew, now, about his true nature. She supposed that a more astute woman would have noticed earlier; would have contemplated the ragged little bits of the puzzle--Herumor, the others, the ring itself--until she had made sense of it all. Ferion had often called her stupid; sitting here, brush in hand, she was half-convinced that he was right.

But, to be honest, she had never really had any reason to pursue the matter. She had accepted, at face value, his early comments about the ring and its powers. There had been nothing to suggest the tumult and torment of his past, nor of the part the ring had played in it. Herumor had proved himself quietly loyal, especially in Angmar where his presence had been more felt than seen. The King had given her no reason to doubt his word about the ring.

Now, though, that she knew he had hidden much from her, what was she to do? She had no intention of leaving him; quite the opposite. There was nothing which could force her from his side--not war, not secrecy, not Sauron himself. She would stand with her King until her own mortality finally parted them.

He would need her even more now. For, if anything, knowing the horrific truth about him only made her more anxious to protect him. Realistically, there was very little she could do against the forces that might strike at him. But she could encourage him, could try to provide some sort of armor for whatever pieces of his soul remained unbound to the damned ring.

And now that she knew the truth, she wondered-- what else she had blindly accepted? How close had they come to other disasters, how many tragedies and fiascos had been averted by the King? He often told her little things about his day, trifling things that were meant to amuse her. Not once had he discussed any possible dangers, either to himself or to the kingdom. No, he had let her believe that his world was one of endless, boring mounds of paperwork; foolish entreaties from visitors; mind-numbing discussions of budgets and money.

And she had willingly accepted it all, innocently believing that there were no threats abroad against her sanctuary in Angmar. She had ignored Adzuphel's comments about the King's enemies, preferring to believe him invincible. And, in truth, to her he was.

Until the night at the Hillmen's fort.

Her whole perception of him had changed that night, and it had never returned to its former state. She saw now that he was vulnerable, that he could be hurt, that he could be taken from her. And that had unnerved her, had stripped away the foundation of her security. From that point on she could no longer take for granted that he would be there to protect her and their children. Even now, seeing him alive, she could not be sure. For, if the magic of the ring failed, if the spell that bound him to it was finally broken, what then? Would he be disembodied, a spirit looking for a new body to call home? Or would he pass, irretrievably, into the Void?

In a way, it was worse than being married to a regular man. If a man was shot, and the arrow pierced his heart, he died. If a sword separated his head from his body, he died. If he stepped from the walls of a keep, he died.

But not the King. As long as his ring held power, he would not die, not in the usual sense of the word. No, he would suffer viciously, hovering between worlds, while his broken body repaired itself. Herumor might be able to help him, but the pain and agony of healing were his alone to bear. Nothing that she, or Herumor, or anyone else could do would ease his torment.

Sauron could not have found a worse manner of punishment for the King if he had tried.

When they got home, she swore, she would do everything in her power to help him. She would learn what she could, to make his burdens easier. And she would love him, freely giving him all of herself, that he could draw strength from her.

Last night he had been too weak for even the gentlest of lovemaking. Ariashal yearned for his touch, longed to surrender herself to him, to feel the ecstasy of his love. But he had fallen asleep almost as soon as he lay down, which greatly worried her. She knew how little rest he normally needed; to see him so weak and vulnerable frightened her. And so she had gently drawn the blankets over him, and kept watch over him until she, too, finally drifted off.

Someone rapped at the door.

Gathering her dressing robe about her, Ariashal called out, "Enter."

Ferion, disheveled, stalked into the room, slamming the door behind him. "I got your message. What do you want?"

She gently set aside the brush. "I have reconsidered my position. I think it would be best if the wedding were held tonight."

"Really." Ferion studied her carefully. "And what made you decide this?"

"I think that it is foolish for me to try to postpone that which is inevitable. Since I have no choice in the matter, I would rather have it over and done with."

"And what of your--condition?"

She drew a long breath. "I feel I am sufficiently well to be married. If the marriage is not consummated tonight, it will not matter."

He snickered. "I suspect Armendil will overcome his distaste. You are all he has talked about. He cannot wait to be married to you."

She said nothing.

"Very well. Tonight it is. I will tell Armendil, and the servants, and have everything made ready. Only two of his brothers are here, but that will have to suffice." He stopped at the door. "I am glad you finally came to your senses, Ariashal. It will be much pleasanter for you this way."

A harried-looking messenger awaited him outside the door. "Sire," he began, "we have looked everywhere for the papers. They cannot be found anywhere."

"Then you will look again! Must I do everything for you?"

"What is the matter?" she asked, innocently.

"Misplaced papers of mine are no concern of yours!" He turned to her, his body filling the doorway. "You will be ready by nightfall. Good day." He slammed the door as he went.

She waited until he was gone before giggling.

The ghosts, the ghosts had done what the King had asked--they had hidden Ferion's papers. Where? Who knew? In a drawer, perhaps; or beneath a mattress; or--the thought cheered her--maybe they had been hidden in a fire. A fireplace would be an effective hiding spot; for once the flame was kindled, whoosh! --the papers would be gone.

How much had changed, even in the space of a few hours! Never before had she thought of ghosts as allies and friends. Now, though, she knew better.

But would they--could they--do what the King needed?

Suddenly sober, she considered what might happen. If the King needed them to, they could be counted upon to move some small things about; the papers proved that. They might also be able to appear, and startle a few of the guards, just as they had frightened Ferion in his cave. But they would not frighten all of them. Ferion's men were hardened warriors, used to battling Cardolan's armies. Death was no stranger to them. Would ghosts really be able to keep such men at bay? Or would they, too, be like the Elves, and find a way to pierce the King's armor?

What if--what if they, too, were armed with weapons magicked like the arrows used by the Elves? Ferion had hinted that he had many more things like those arrows. What would happen to the King, surrounded by a dozen or more of Ferion's men, all carrying swords whose sole purpose was to cut him down?

Nervous, fearful, she picked up the brush and began once again to run it through her hair.  



	47. Wedding Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

Wedding Night

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I thought you would be done by now." Ferion, clean for once, stalked about the room.

Ariashal leisurely tied back her hair. "I told you that I have been unwell. And I will look my best tonight, despite everything that I have endured."

"Endured?" Ferion laughed. "What have you had to endure? You have been freed from that evil thing you called husband. You no longer need live in the frozen north. You will stay here, and be wed to a living man."

"He was my husband." She caught herself before saying too much. "And I miss my children."

"You will have more children soon enough." He crossed to the window. "Damn, woman! Why must you tarry so? It is after nightfall."

"I will not have it said that I did not look a Queen." She adjusted the glittering sun necklace. The deep blue of the jewel contrasted nicely with the rich burgundy of her dress. The only fancy chemise she had was also a dark blue; it picked up the color of the jeweled sun. She looked to see that her earrings were properly hung. "And it is much more difficult to prepare for this alone."

"I could not find a woman to your liking!"

"No, you could not," she agreed. There was no way that she would have taken any of the miserable, filthy creatures that called themselves women as her helper. She found that she much preferred doing it herself. It gave her a sense of confidence, and even superiority. "I am Queen. I deserve fine ladies as my servants, not common whores and tavern wenches."

"My men like them well enough."

"I am not one of your men."

"How much longer will you be?"

She thought for a moment. What she wished to say would only anger him further, and in any event she would not be believed. After a moment's deliberations, she smiled. "I think I am almost prepared. There are some things which I need to do in private, so if you would be so kind as to leave, I will be able to finish."

"Perhaps I should stay."

Her eyes met his.

"Ferion," she began, her voice level, "I am unwell. I will not do anything so intimate with you in the room."

"Very well. But do not take all night!" He left, slamming the door shut behind him.

She waited, listening while he spoke with the guards before leaving. Once his footfalls died away, she raced to the secret panel. It took a moment for her to spring the latch. Seizing a candle, she slipped silently down the spiral stair.

"My lord?" she called out.

Silence.

Uneasy, she checked the room. His bed was there, along with the almost-empty basket of food and the spent candle. The door to the tombs was open, and a slight breeze, scented with death, blew into the room. She sheltered her candle before it too died.

He was not here. He must have gone on to prepare the next part of the spell. She was not certain if this was a good thing or not. What if she went with Ferion, and the King was not yet ready? What if he had fallen ill while rousing the dead? What if they had tried to overpower him, and drag him into their world?

_Stop this,_ she warned herself. _It will help nothing to panic._ After a moment, she turned and retraced her steps, careful to close the door behind her. She quickly dusted the bits of cobwebs from her sleeves, checked her hair for dust, and straightened her gown. She was as ready as she was ever going to be. All she could do now was go forth, and trust that the Witch-king would not fail.

"Open the door," she commanded.

***

The guards escorted her to Ferion's quarters, where he was impatiently drumming his fingers on his table. He jumped to his feet as soon as she approached. "It took you long enough," he growled. "Armendil is anxious to marry you."

"He can wait a little longer." She gave him her hand.

"What is this?" demanded Ferion. "How did you get dust and cobwebs on your back?"

Ariashal froze, mind racing. What could she say?

"Well?"

"I--dropped something, and had to fetch it."

"Stand still." Roughly he swept the last of the dust from her shoulders. "There. Now you are presentable. Come on. The men are waiting."

Hand in hand, they made their way down the Keep's corridors. There were only a few men about; all the others must already be down, waiting for the marriage to take place. She and Ferion descended the wide stairs that she had only recently climbed with the King. How different they were now! Stripped of the fine carpets brought from Angmar, with only a few crude torches to illuminate them, they seemed to be the stairs of a dungeon instead of a royal Keep. The constant pressure of Ferion's hand on her own only served to reinforce the impression of impending imprisonment.

At the base of the stairs they paused, while Ferion adjusted his tunic. One of the guards handed him his crown, a rather florid, ostentatious gold band inlaid with garnets that glinted in the light. It did not quite seem to fit Ferion. Or, rather, he was so unaccustomed to it that it did not sit him well. Ariashal wondered how much of Angmar's gold had been squandered on the ugly crown.

"Come on," he snarled, pulling her hand. "The men are impatient."

At a nod from him, the guards pushed open the heavy doors.

Inside, the great hall had been prepared for a feast. Tables lined the walls, and men had already taken their seats. Other tables were arranged towards the middle of the room, set aside to accommodate the lesser guests. Several musicians clustered near one wall, tuning their instruments. A fire blazed in the center of the room, although the evening was not even particularly cool. Someone had tried to make the room seem festive by hanging boughs and flowers along the walls; but the drooping branches and wilting blooms did nothing to lighten the overall mood.

The appearance of Ferion and Ariashal set off a wild, raucous chorus of cheers from the men. From the sounds and smells that filled the air, Ariashal knew that most of the men had been drinking, and had probably been doing so for the better part of the day. That would make the King's task easier. Cheered at the thought, she smiled.

Armendil sat at the head table, his prince's coronet gleaming in the light. Unlike Ferion, he wore a colorful tunic--green and yellow, trimmed with gold. There were two men at his right, similarly attired; they must be his brothers, arrived just recently from Cardolan. At the sight of Ariashal they nudged him, whispering something which brought them to gales of laughter. She suspected that she was the cause of their merriment. Laugh away, she thought as she approached them. Enjoy this farce while you may.

Armendil half-rose, half-staggered to his feet. He smiled at her. The reek of alcohol billowed from him.

"Armendil, Prince of Cardolan," began Ferion, "may I present your wife, Ariashal, Princess of Rhudaur."

"Princess," Armendil slurred, "Come over here and you can sit with me." He gave her a long, appraising look. "We can just forget this feast if you want, and go right to bed. We can even do it here!"

Shocked, Ariashal hesitated. She had no desired to be pawed by this drunkard, certainly not in front of these people.

"Stop it!" For once, Ferion came to her aid. "This is a feast, Armendil, and you will treat my sister with respect!"

Armendil looked at him; to Ariashal it seemed as if he was having trouble focusing his gaze. "Very well, Ferion, we will--we can sit here until dinner is over. Then--" he winked at Ariashal--

"we can go have some fun."

Ferion seated himself next to her, staring savagely at Armendil all the while. It heartened her to know that the allies were barely civil with each other. In a perverse way, it pleased her not a little to know that she was the cause of the friction. If she were actually going to live with Armendil, it would make for a miserable life; but since she was not going anywhere, it would make no difference to her. All she had to do was get through dinner without being fondled by Armendil, and go home with her King.

The little group of musicians struck up a ballad. Soon the room was a cacophony of clanging goblets, forks striking pewter plates, shouted jokes, drunken attempts to follow the lyrics of the songs. Armendil tried to tell her some story, his voice thick and sloppy from drink; it was made all the more disgusting by his mouthful of half-chewed meat.

Ariashal picked at the food before her. Knowing her brother, it was probably drugged somehow; and the last thing she wanted was to be sleepy when the King arrived. She resorted to the tried and true method of simply pushing the meats and vegetables around the plate with her fork, hoping that her companions were too drunk to notice her lack of appetite.

The evening brought back some unpleasant memories. It was like almost every other one of her wedding feasts--bawdy, raucous songs; a groom who was merrily drinking himself into oblivion; and her family, hoping that this time she would go away, and manage to not end up killing her husband. Of course, Ferion was counting on her to do just that. How could he so cynically pour wine for Armendil, when in reality he knew that he might as well be pouring poison?

It was not like Carn Dum, where both the wedding and the feast had been conducted with a modicum of dignity. The biggest difference was the King; he would not tolerate the sort of behavior that Ferion and Armendil were openly encouraging. It would indeed seem strange to an outsider that the Witch-king would be the most respectful of the men she had known--most women would have expected just the opposite, preferring, instead, the alcohol-fueled chaos of the Keep. If only she had known how kind he would be! Never would she have objected to the marriage.

"I hear your other husbands all died!" shouted Armendil over the din. "Well, you--you know I am not going to die. You are not--no woman is going to kill me!" He swallowed more wine. "No one is ever going to kill me. And I will keep you so busy--" he belched loudly-- "I will keep you so pregnant you will never have a chance to kill me!"

His brothers broke into gales of laughter. Ariashal smiled, stabbing at the meat on her plate.

Someone at another table shouted the name of a popular, raunchy song; and the musicians dutifully took up the tune. Armendil joined in, roaring the saga of the man, woman, pigsty and carrots with wine-fueled gusto. Soon Ferion added his voice to the chorus.

Ariashal wondered if her brother had sung this at his own weddings--but of course he had. At his first, to the shy Dunedain girl from Fornost; and at the last, to the tall blonde sent from the Hillmen in exchange for cattle. She had always supposed that they had simply succumbed to illness, but now, watching Ferion's machinations, she wondered. No one had ever accused Ferion of being cursed, despite the fact that all his wives died. Perhaps, unlike her, he had taken a more active part in hastening their demises. Was there nothing he would not do?

More singing and shouting filled the room. Someone knocked a platter of meat to the floor, sending the pewter clattering away. Others, far too drunk to care, laughed and cheered as the meat rolled to the fire.

There was another loud, urgent clang of metal on metal. Someone was fighting--not in here, but outside the hall. Two of the men closest to the door drew their swords before leaving to break up the altercation outside.

They never got their chance.

With a resounding crash, the great doors slammed open, sweeping the two guards aside, crushing them against the stone walls.

Ariashal's heart leapt.

There stood the King, robed, hooded, masked, his black cloak swirling about him, surrounded by an army of armored men. With one hand he drew his great sword. For a moment he held it aloft. Flames licked along the blade.

"Ferion," he called, his voice cold as the grave, "prepare to meet your doom."

 

 

 

 


	48. The Silver Phantom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

The Silver Phantom

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"What are you doing here?" Ferion leapt from his chair, knocking it to the floor. "You should be dead!"

"Nay, Ferion. Neither Man, nor Elf, nor Maia, may slay me. And now you shall pay for your treachery." Slowly, flaming sword raised, the King entered the room, his eyes blazing red. Behind him a seething mass of armor awaited his command. "GO!" he ordered, pointing with the sword. "But harm not the Queen nor Ferion. I will have him alive!"

With a rush and clash of metal, the army of the dead swarmed past the towering figure of the King and on into the hall. Men too drunk to stand were slaughtered where they sat, their blood mingling on the floor with the wine and ale. Others stood to fight, only to be overwhelmed by an enemy that needed no rest and felt no pain. Some cut down a few members of the undead horde, only to fall themselves a moment later.

Ariashal had known what her husband had planned; but it was a very different thing to _know_ about it than it was to actually _see_ the army of undead. The Dunedain had kept the Numenorean tradition of preserving the dead, though in Rhudaur it was a practice that was not always faithfully observed. Now the products of these beliefs raged about, slaughtering all in their path. Some were little more than skeletons, white bones surrounded by rusted bits of armor. Others were more or less decayed, held together, it seemed, by the presence of armor pieces that forced shoulders to stay attached to arms, and feet to support legs.

Most disturbing of all were the more recent dead--or, rather, the better-preserved. They could almost be mistaken for living men, save for the fact that an unearthly green light flickered in their eyes. Were her father and brothers among them? Other men she knew? Ariashal buried her face in her hands, afraid to look.

Savagely Ferion seized Ariashal's shoulder, roughly hauling her to her feet. Spinning her around, he grabbed her, pinning her arms behind her.

Pressing a knife to her back, pushing the tip of the blade through the fabric of her dress, Ferion dragged her toward the back wall.

"Fight me and die!" he hissed into her ear.

"Let me go!" Ariashal knew it was hopeless, but she had to make the attempt. She knew Ferion would not hesitate to stab her, not when his own life was at stake.

"And lose my only chance for escape? No, sweet sister, you are coming with me!"

She heard Ferion kick the stone wall, followed by a deep grinding noise. A rush of cold air blew past. A secret door--there must be a secret door in here, too. The King had said that they were all through the castle, and this must be one he had neither found nor explored.

"Call them off, Witch-king!" shouted Ferion. "Call them off, or she dies!"

"Do not be a fool," said the King, his voice clear above the din. "Do not make things worse for yourself. Release her, else your suffering will be far worse than you can know!"

"No, Witch-King. _You_ will know suffering!"

With a hard pull, he yanked Ariashal around to face him. Before she could move, before she could react, he buried his knife in her stomach. For a moment he held it there, then drove it up, forcing it deep beneath her ribs. He flung her at the advancing undead, and vanished through the secret door.

Ariashal landed, hard, at the feet of a skeleton clad in ragged green cloth. She could not quite believe what had just happened. Her stomach--her stomach was on fire; her dress and the ground beneath her were red with blood. Her blood? She could not tell. She only knew that she could not breathe; she could only gasp, and with each gasp more blood splattered out.

There was a huge gash in her dress, blood streaming through it. Instinctively she clasped her hands over it, trying to keep more of the precious fluid from running out.

"Do not move." The King's familiar voice sounded at her side. "I am here."

Chanting, he laid one hand on her stomach. The blood slowed, then stopped. She felt her body floating up off of the floor, felt the hard surface of a table as she was gently deposited upon its top. Suddenly she was extremely tired; she wanted nothing more than to sleep. Her eyes kept slipping shut. Yet she knew she should stay awake, should try and speak with the King.

She forced her eyes open.

To her surprise there was a man in black bending over her, his hood only partially covering his face. His hair was long, silky, silvery-gray, stark against the blackness of his clothes. His face seemed to be part of a world that had no color, only shades of gray; his very flesh seemed colorless. There was something otherworldly about him; he seemed almost translucent.

She could not stop staring at him. His features were proud, noble, handsome. Who was this? Why was he here? Where was her King? She wanted her King.

"Where--" she began.

"Lie still, my queen," said the strange man. "You are badly hurt."

This was her husband? This silver-gray being? Why could she see him? Was she--she must be--she must be slipping into the shadow world--and she must be falling into death. No! She did not want to die; she was not ready yet to die. She had children to raise. They needed her. And her King needed her. She had too much to do yet. She would not go.

"My lord." She reached for him, touching the face of the man she had loved for so long.

He turned to look at her. For a moment their eyes met.

For years she had given him many faces in her dreams, given him endless combinations of features to suit her desires. Now, confronted by the reality of him, she could only stare. Handsome, refined, with features that more than hinted at the Elven blood that ran so strong in Numenorean royalty.

But it was his eyes that captured her attention. Large and bright, silver as the new moon--she tried to read what emotions she could; but all she seemed to find was fear. What was he afraid of? Her death? He did not want her to die, either. Or was there something even worse that he feared?

"Sleep, my queen," he said, and began to sing.

Obediently she closed her eyes, the image of her husband burned forever into her heart.

**********

 

 

"She stirs? That is good."

Ariashal recognized the voice of the King. Whisperings in the air told her that a ghost must be here, too. She managed to force her eyes open, though she longed to sleep.

"Ariashal?" the King's voice was soft, gentle, and compassionate.

She tried to sit up. Her dress had been torn open, revealing the ugly gash on her stomach. Blood had stiffened the fabric, poured on the tablecloths. The King's cloak was wadded into a pillow for her. Someone else's cloak had been drawn over her shoulders and legs for warmth.

"Do not try to move. The wound is deep. I have done what I could to restore you, but you must rest for it to hold."

She nodded. With all the energy she could muster, she looked up at him. She wanted to see him, to gaze once more upon her husband's face.

He was not there. Or, rather, he was no longer visible to her. Without the hood, all she could see was the crown, floating, it seemed, in mid-air. The gorgeous silver being was gone. "I cannot see you," she said, stifling a sob.

"That is good." The King gently adjusted her pillow. "It means that you will stay among the living. For a time I feared that you would not."

"I did not want to leave you."

"Nor am I anxious to see you go. Had I been delayed but a little, though, we would not be having this conversation."

"Where is Ferion? Did he get away?"

The King laughed. "No, my queen. As I told you, it is impossible to keep secrets from the dead. They caught him long before he had time to escape."

"But where is he?"

"They are holding him for me. He is not going anywhere, though, for I fear that they have been none too gentle with him. Tis a good thing that I ordered them to leave him alive, else there would be little of him left."

"I want to see him."

"You are terribly wounded, my queen. I do not want you to harm yourself."

"I will not be harmed." She managed to push herself up.

The King caught her arm, steadying her on the table. "Very well. Since I cannot convince you to rest, I will at least make you comfortable."

Something solid and heavy pressed against her back. She guessed it was a chair, laid on its side to better support her. The King adjusted it, bracing it so that she would not fall. When he was done he rearranged the cloak, covering her up to her throat.

"Thank you," she murmured. "After all he has done to my family, I will see him brought to justice."

"As you wish, my queen." The King tenderly kissed her hand, and turned back to the room. "Bring the prisoner before me!"

Once he moved away, Ariashal could see the rest of the hall. The room was a mass of bodies, soaked in blood and gore. Limbs, both from Ferion's men and the undead, lay scattered across the floor. Pieces of armor, torn clothing, weapons--all were strewn over the stone. Armendil's corpse lay near the remains of his brothers; his head had rolled off to one side, lodging beneath a chair. All this carnage, all this devastation, all this waste, was because of her brother. So many men dead--good men, too, some of them--dead and gone because of the greed of Ferion. And now he would pay the price.

The great doors swung open. Ariashal could see several of the undead warriors, carrying an old wooden armchair. High on the chair, shaking, bloody, sat Ferion. From the look of his clothes, and the odd angle of his limbs, Ariashal guessed that his arms and legs had been broken, and that he had been severely slashed.

His bearers carted him into the room, depositing the chair none too gently on the floor. Ferion groaned as the legs of the chair hit the ground, and his legs jerked spastically. His undead guards slowly shuffled away, arms at the ready.

The King studied him for a moment. "Ferion, prince of Rhudaur," he began, "prepare now to hear your doom."

Ariashal regarded her brother. The arrogant smirk was gone. Instead a mix of pain and fear showed on his puffy, bloodied face. Dried blood matted his hair, stained and stiffened his clothes and tunic. He tried to move, but his fractured limbs were useless to him.

"You attempted to assassinate me," began the King, "as well as my children, my men and even my wife. You murdered your father, your wives, many of your brothers, and even more of your uncles and cousins. You have proven yourself a treacherous, treasonous coward. For you there can be only one fate."

"Kill me," spat Ferion, "and more will rise. I swear this to you, Witch-king! My men will avenge me!"

"Your men are dead. And soon the men of Cardolan will follow. All who joined you are fated now to die. Such is the ruin that you have brought upon this land."

The King drew a dagger, of a kind Ariashal had never before seen. Its blade was long and dull black; smoke curled away from the edge.

"Do you know what this is, Ferion?" The King slowly advanced. "This is a Morgul blade. Death is too kind a fate for you. You do not deserve to know such peace.

"And so, I will strike you with this. Once the blade reaches your heart, you will become a wraith, a creature of neither life nor death. You will have no choice but to do my bidding. You will know neither peace nor rest, for with this I bind you to me. You will know no other master but me. You will be my slave, and my servant, from now until the unmaking of the world."

He held the blade above Ferion's chest. Slowly, silently, he drove it into the yielding fabric.

"Naaaa!" Ferion screamed and thrashed as the blade bit into his flesh. More of the black smoke swirled about.

"Tis cold, Ferion? Colder still will be your home." For a moment he held the blade steady. With a swift thrust, he buried the dagger in Ferion's heart.

Ferion screamed, howling and writhing in agony. The black blade crumbled into ash, leaving only a touch of smoke in its place. Calmly the King stepped back, dropping the hilt to the floor.

For a few minutes Ferion seemed to stay the same. Slowly, at first almost imperceptibly, the color began to fade from him, draining away until he was nothing but a man made of shades of gray. Then that, too, began to dissolve, dissipating, it seemed, into the very air that surrounded him. Ariashal watched as he slowly disappeared from view, leaving only his torn and bloodied clothes to mark his presence.

"Men of Rhudaur," said the King, "Hear now your doom. You will go with Ferion, to the caves that you called home. There you will stay, until I call upon you to do my bidding. Go, now, and trouble me no more!"

All around Ariashal the dead men slowly rose to their feet, gathering their weapons as they stood. Severed limbs twitched and thrashed on the ground, rolling and twisting across the floor as they struggled to rejoin their masters. One by one the undead army filed out the door, marching off into the night. At last Ferion joined them, following his men towards the caves.

The King retrieved Armendil's head from its berth beneath the chair. Hoisting it by the hair, he replaced it on the bloody stump of neck, speaking a strange tongue as he did so. A moment later the Prince's eyes flew open.

"Armendil of Cardolan," intoned the King, "hear now your doom. You and your brothers will return to the house of your father. You will stay in your houses of the dead, until the day I call you to serve. Go, now, and trouble me no more!"

Obediently Armendil and his brothers joined the exodus from the hall, their blood soaked green tunics stark against the duller, rust-stained garb of Ferion's men. When the last of the lurching horde had finally passed the door, the King came to Ariashal's side.

"Now, my queen," he took her hand, "tis time I released my allies. I know not if your father will choose to appear for you, nor if he will speak. The choice will be his. Do you wish to stay, or shall I carry you from here, and then return?"

For a few moments she hesitated. Should she stay, and risk the disappointment, or go? The King needed an answer.

"They have waited long enough," she said, finally. "I will stay."

"As you wish." He turned to the waiting army. "Men of Rhudaur, warriors of King Turabar, hear now your doom. You are released from bondage, for justice has been served. Your revenge has been granted, and you bear the burdens of injustice no more. You are hereby freed from this earth, to make your way to the Halls of Mandos and the peace that you have long sought."

Ariashal expected there to be some sort of cheer, perhaps, or some salute. There was nothing of the kind. Instead the undead began to drift off. A few lay down on the floor where they were, as though they could not wait to quit their bodies. Others slowly shuffled out the door, to return to the tombs, or to other rooms in the great Keep. She found herself searching their faces, looking for something, anything, from her father.

Sudden movement caught her eye. For the briefest of seconds she saw her father. Not the stern, grizzled warrior who had sent her off to Angmar, but a young, strong man, proud and tall, pleased with the abundance life had brought him. The image lasted but a moment before dissolving away.

Before Ariashal had a chance to fully digest what she had seen, she was overwhelmed with a crush of what seemed to be speech; yet she heard it only within her head. _All will be well,_ said the voice so long stilled. _There is much yet which you must do. You and your children are loved and well-protected, and I at last am at peace._

The strange sensation vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Ariashal awash in a cauldron of emotions. Her father was--what? Dead, yes; and yet somehow, somewhere, alive. He had finally given her a message--one of hope, of love and strength.

Her father, the massacre, her stabbing--it was too much. She buried her face in the King's cloak and cried.

She felt the King, strong and safe, gather her into his arms. "Come, my queen," he said. "The day has been long, and we both must rest. I will bear you away to safety, and we will leave the Keep for the dead."  



	49. The Hands of a King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

_**CHAPTER 49 The Hands of a King** _

The King decided that Ariashal was too weak to travel far. Instead they would stay here, in his lair, until she was stronger. She was ready to go directly down to the little room, but he insisted they stop in her old quarters long enough for her to wash off the dried gore, remove the ruined, blood-soaked gown, and replace it with a clean one from her chest. Refreshed, she crawled into his arms to be carried down to the chamber.

Herumor met them inside. “You should not do so much,” he scolded the King. “You will overtax yourself.”

“I could not leave her there!”

“No, but you might have called me, that I might be your arms. And if your strength had failed?”

“I would not let it.”

Herumor sighed. “Very well.” He pulled back the covers so that the King could place Ariashal on the bed. “The old king warned me of Ferion’s treachery. I have some food for you, should you need to refresh yourselves.”

“I thank you, but now I believe the best course for the Queen is rest.”

“She is not the only one who should rest!” Herumor retreated to the table. Ariashal could see the King’s medical box, along with some clean cloth. “I must needs check my handiwork. I will concentrate what skills I have on you, that you may best treat the Queen.”

“Very well.” The King gently drew the sheet over Ariashal. “Rest, my Queen. When Herumor has finished with me, I promise I will join you.”

Ariashal watched her husband as he willingly submitting to Herumor’s ministrations. There were many bandages involved, along with spells, half whispered and half hissed. She was too tired to watch; her eyes insisted on slipping shut. She tried to force them open, but it was no use. Still, it pleased her to know that Herumor was able to tend to her husband.

Listening to them, she learned that they had managed to recover some shards of the arrows used on the King. They had them tightly locked away, so that they could be examined once they were safely back in Carn Dum. And she also learned that some of the weapons left scattered across the hall had been made in the same way. These would also be taken to Carn Dum, where, she learned, attempts to create an effective counter spell would be done.

Her own treatment was even more of a mystery. She knew that there were spells sung, and unguents applied. They both worked on her, although it seemed that Herumor was more of an assistant than master. It cost the King a great deal of his own strength to treat her; when they finished with her he collapsed into sleep at her side. There was little she could do for him except hold him, and breathe prayers of thanks for his survival.

“His knife pierced her lung,” said the King.

Ariashal opened her eyes. How long had she been asleep? Several hours, at least, if the King was well enough to be stirring.

“She is strong,” continued the King. “I am pleased to see that she sleeps well.”

Ariashal reclosed her eyes. Perhaps she would learn more about her care, and what was planned for the immediate future.

“It was your skills that saved her, not simply her strength,” said Herumor “ I would have been unable to stanch the flow of blood, let along heal her lung.”

“You would not have had to.”

“Why do you say that?”

The King sighed. “She was attacked because of me. Had she been the wife of another, this would not have happened.”

“Ferion would have struck at anyone who interfered with his plans,” argued Herumor. “You know that.”

“True enough,” agreed the King. “ Ferion was naught but a faithless coward. But still, she is endangered by our union. Others will try to strike at me through her. And she will suffer for the curse of marrying me.”

“I do not think she considers it a curse.”

“Only because she does not understand what is arrayed against us. If only I had slain Ferion sooner!”

“You tried to negotiate with him,” reasoned Herumor. “He did not treat fairly with you. And you know that you did not want to expose your family to the spectacle of his execution. He could have simply chosen to retire. That he did not is hardly your fault. And in truth, had he not died when he did, you would have been forced to return and deal with him in the future, when he might have been able to marry Lalwen into Cardolan.”

“True. It will be difficult enough to deal with Cardolan now, even lacking most of its Princes.”

“They did not have to ally themselves with Ferion. What do you plan to do now, after we return to Carn Dum?”

“For the winter, nothing, save prepare for war. I expect that Cardolan will test our strength in a few places, and we must do the same with them. But we must proceed with caution, for I do not wish to frighten them into unifying with Arthedain or Imladris.”

“There are many small towns that can be seized by Rhudaur,” suggested Herumor.

“Damn Ferion!” The King struck the table; its shudders echoed around the stone room. “If he had simply cooperated, then I would have been able to marry his grandchildren into my family. Then we could have gradually absorbed Cardolan and Arthedain, and a destructive war would have been avoided. Now we will have no choice but make a call to arms.”

“Perhaps we could simply withdraw and leave Rhudaur to fend for itself?”

“No, that is not possible. It is the land of my Queen, and it is therefore also my responsibility. I cannot abandon it now.”

“We might still be able to treat with Cardolan.”

“Not now. Ferion long ago poisoned that well. And after the death of the older princes, they will be unwilling to accept any negotiations.”

“They might take it as a warning, and be more ready to treat.”

“No, they will not. They will perceive it as a threat, and will use it as an excuse to fight. The best we can hope for is that Arthedain does not come to their aid.”

“Perhaps Arthedain can be persuaded to look the other way.”

“They might indeed,” agreed the King. “There is no love between Arthedain and Cardolan. They could well grasp at any straw which prevents them from becoming entangled with their neighbor’s woes.”

“That leaves Imladris.”

“Yes.” The King tapped the table. “There is no way into Imladris. But perhaps–perhaps we do not need to get into Imladris to prevent their involvement.”

“What are you thinking?”

“It might be possible to surround their valley, and prevent them from leaving. Not a true siege, you understand; just a line, enough to keep them in.”

“And incapable of aiding Cardolan.”

“Precisely. Master Elrond is loth to spend lives needlessly. And his advisors will not want him to wage a war for the preservation of Cardolan. Neither Glorfindel nor Erestor have much love for Men.”

“That might very well work,” agreed Herumor. “And if a war with Cardolan is swiftly brought to a close, we might be able to avoid any needless entanglements with the Elves.”

“I doubt that we will be so fortunate, either in the duration of a war or in our dealings with the Elves. Still, if we can have but few skirmishes with Imladris, and lose only a few towns to Cardolan, I will count the war a success. Where is Gothmog these days?”

“In the East. He was training some men when last I saw him.”

“Good. He must join us in Carn Dum and bring his men with him. Their families, too, if needs be. Angmar has room enough for them.”

“I will fetch him once we are home,” agreed Herumor. “I know he will relish the idea of fighting for you again.”

“The strongest man I have ever fought,” said the King. “And it will be good for the princes to learn from him. I fear I have neglected them.”

“Neglected them? Nay, you have given them a far better education than most men, and even fewer kings treat their sons as well as you do. You have nothing to fear in regards to your children.” “Still. It will be good when they can see their mother and I again. The Queen sorely misses them.”

“As do you.”

“True enough. The Queen, I think, will be ready to travel in a day or two. I do not want to hurry, and cause her any harm.”

“Nor do you want to harm yourself. If you wish I will ride in your place, that you may rest with your Queen in the carriage. No one need know.”

“Tis a wise and generous offer, one that I will consider. The Cardolani must not know that there are two of us here, and they must not see two of us on the road home. They did not watch during our arrival, but they will not make that mistake again. We must assume that all of the roads home will be closely scrutinized.”

“Have you decided who will rule here in your name?”

“The chief of the Hillmen will do nicely, I think. He has learned not to cross me, and I doubt that he will need another lesson.”

“He is no fool,” Herumor chuckled. “He has wit enough to know when he is bested. I think he should be well ensconced in the new tower by now. It will make a fitting capital.”

“Better by far than this pile,” agreed the King. “Have you given the order to abandon this keep’s town?”

“I did not have to, for the sight of the undead leaving the Keep was enough to convince most that it was time to flee. The men have been directing them towards the new tower, where they will be able to rebuild.”

“Have they provisions enough to survive the winter?”

“I do not know. I will have Adzuphel send someone to assess the situation.”

“That is good. I do not want my new subjects starving their first year.” The king tapped the table. “We should have someone supervise the building of long halls, like the markets and troll-homes. That would shelter many, and would keep the people too occupied to engage in any mischief. And I do not want this new town to grow as haphazardly as the old.”

“Tis an excellent plan. I will have Adzuphel dispatch the engineers to the tower, to begin laying the foundations.” Herumor rerolled some papers; Ariashal guessed that they must be maps or charts. “It is almost time to examine the queen. If you wish, I can leave.”

“Nay, cousin. I will need the aid of another. She is too important to be trusted to a single healer, no matter his devotion or skill.”

“Very well. Bring her to the table, so we may proceed.”

The King sighed. “Perhaps it would be best if she stayed here.”

“Of course she is going to stay here,” said Herumor. “Neither of you are in any condition to wander around the countryside.”

“Tis not what I meant. Perhaps....perhaps it would be best for her if she were to be given her own household, far away from me.”

“What? That Elf poison has affected your mind! She would be in far graver danger away from you. No one will dare strike at her now, not with Ferion so spectacularly destroyed. And without you, Sauron would be much better able to affect her.”

“Tis true enough,” agreed the King. “I merely thought that she would be--safer--if we were no longer a couple.”

“I know what you think,” began Herumor. “And it would seem like wisdom. But she would be ever more vulnerable, and you would be unable to help her when her need was greatest. I know how deeply you care for her. There is nothing you would not do, no power you would not use, to keep her safe. She knows this. And you would both be miserable apart. You love her too greatly for it to be any other way.”

“Aye, that I do. Herumor, you know me too well.”

“Yes, and I will not be able to stand being in your presence should you set her aside. Nor would I wish to be around her. Though I must confess: I wish that I could find another like her, so I could have for myself the happiness you share.”

The King laughed. “Perhaps we will make finding you a lady our next objective! Come, we must needs wake her, and see to her wounds.”

Ariashal allowed them to rouse her, feigning drowsiness even though she feared she would burst. She knew that they dared not speak openly because of Sauron, and the chance that he would learn of their love. How desperately she longed to fling her arms about him, to hold on and crush herself to him! She barely felt the sting of the astringents or the gentle pressure of his hands on her wound. He loved her, and that was medicine enough.


	50. The Intentional Fallacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

_**Chapter 50 The Intentional Fallacy** _

 

 

 

“You are a much better patient than your husband.”

Ariashal smiled as Herumor carefully laid out the instruments for the afternoon’s medical treatments. The King was upstairs, consulting with Adzuphel about the new tower. “He does not seem to be too much trouble for you.”

“Ahh, but that is because you are here. When you were gone, it was another matter entirely.”

Gone. She would never forget her captivity, nor its aftermath. It had been nearly a week since Ferion’s attempt on her life. During that time she had done little more than rest while her husband and Herumor tended to her. Today she felt stronger, well enough to be restless. Rolling bandages for herself and the King was a good activity for her.

Today she also felt strong enough to question Herumor about the King. “Herumor,” she began, “how much trouble was the King?”

“Trouble? He was-–well--perhaps I should say that he was primarily concerned about you.”

“And?”

The black figure stopped. “I fear I have already said too much. He was wounded, and I treated him.”

“Herumor, you are not being disloyal by speaking with me. I am his wife!”

“Aye, indeed. And were it not for you...” his voice trailed off.

“If it were not for me, what?” She set aside the roll of linen. “Herumor, what happened? How badly was he hurt?”

Herumor buried his head in his hands. After a moment he straightened up.

“I suppose you might as well know how grave his situation was. The elven arrows had managed, somehow, to break the spell that binds his will to his flesh. Once they had done so, he was no longer invincible. He was as vulnerable as any man.

“The spell, like his strength and his spirit, are bound into the ring. Once they stripped him of the ring, then it was only a matter of time. And the consequences of another claiming the ring would have been disastrous.”

“But you must have found him in time. Else--”

“Else he would not be here. Aye, Madame, that is correct. He was nigh dead when I carried him back here. And my troubles were only beginning, for I had to remove all the pieces of the elven arrows before he could recover.”

He took a long breath. “The arrows struck close to his heart and pierced his lung. One of them had shattered when it hit bone, and I had to cut the tiniest parts from his flesh. He lost much blood. I did all I could to help him, yet I was not at all certain that I had been successful. All I could do was tend to him.”

Something in his voice–a hesitation, perhaps, or a catch–told her that he was hiding things form her. Ariashal glanced at the table. There was no brandy in here; the King had feared imbibing it might harm her recovery. She would have to try a different approach if she were to succeed with Herumor.

“My lord,” she began, “you did much to help him, for without you he would have been lost.”

“Lost? Aye, Madame, you know not how true that is.”

“Oh?”

He stopped. “I–I do not know what you understand of our nature. We cannot die, you see. Not easily, in any case. And I feared that he would fall into a living death. For without the ring, he would not recover; yet by his very nature, he would not die. He would merely exist, lying upon this bed, neither dead nor alive, unable to reach one or the other. It was the worst fate imaginable for him. And for us, too, Madame–Aye! I mean us, you and me, the others, even the very kingdom.

Angmar is young, and without the King would soon fall.

“Too often, Madame, I have seen what happens to a kingdom when a strong king is lost. Unless he be succeeded by another as strong, the kingdom grows weak. And if he is followed by a child, chaos oft ensues. With Imrahil as ruler, Angmar would not last long. The prince is too young to control the various factions and cabals which are only now coming into a true kingdom. Arthedain would strike, and soon enough would win. There would be little I could do, save plan an escape from ruin.

“The Kingdom of Angmar would be a shadow, a page in a history, perhaps, or the half-remembered rambles of a drunken bard. And the rest of us–you, me, the others–would be bereft of our true protector.

“So you must understand. I would have–nay, I did do everything I could to save him. And there was nothing, _nothing at all_ , that I was not prepared to do if it became necessary.” He drew a long breath. “But you spared me that pain, Madame, when you returned the ring to Adzuphel. For no sooner did I slide the ring upon his finger than he began to recover. His heartbeat returned to normal, as did his breathing. And soon enough he was asking for you.”

“I–” she hesitated, finally managing to control her voice. “I thought him dead. I only gave the ring to Adzuphel because I thought you would know how best to dispense with it.” She laid another roll of linen on the table. “If I had known about his state, I would have tried to send it sooner.”

“It arrived in time, I assure you. And that you were with Ferion was an immense relief for both the King and myself.”

“What do you mean?”

Herumor closed the box. “The greatest fear he–nay, we-- all had was that you had been carried off by the Elves. The King, I know, was especially concerned. For he knew that Master Elrond would never permit you to go free, for all his talk of friendship to the children of Elros. Friendship! Ha! Only with those whom the master of Imladris chooses to bless with his favor. He had little enough friendship for us when the King sought his aid.

“Had the Elves been more than mere mercenaries for Ferion, it would have ignited a war between us. And a savage one it would be, for the King would stop at nothing to retrieve you.”

“I am very glad that it did not come to that! But I admit that there was a time when I thought I would be unable to possess the ring, let alone return it to you. Ferion had all of the King’s belongings in his room. The sword and armor were far too big for him, but the ring was not. Ferion tried to claim it, and when he placed it on his hand, he saw something which frightened him into throwing it away. That was when I was given it back.”

“Saw something, did he?” Herumor laughed icily. “ I am not surprised. He probably saw the men he had killed, all wanting revenge. It is something that can drive a man mad, seeing those he has slain stand before him. It is one of the dangers of walking in our world.”

“Are you troubled by them?”

“No, no longer. The King taught us how to drive them off, so that we would not be beset by them. It is one of the many things for which we are beholden to him. Ferion merely got that which he deserved.”

“Ferion threatened me,” Ariashal continued. “He threatened to take me as his wife, before deciding to give me to Cardolan. And he–he threatened to give me to his men, if I resisted.”

“Best for all, then, that he chose a different path. Had you been harmed in that way, there would be nothing left standing between here and the sea. The King would never have permitted such a crime to go unpunished. Nor--” he added, “would I. Nay, if the King were unable to avenge you, I would have led the army. And all our brethren would have rallied in your name. For you have become our Queen, much as he is our King and Captain. Even Khamul feels thus, though it is not in his nature to tell you so.

“Nay, Madame, you have come under the protection of the Nazgul, for good or ill. The King hopes that someday we may all rally beneath the banner of Angmar, and if we cannot fully sever our ties to Sauron, perhaps they can be weakened into nothingness. And you have become a rallying point for us all.”

“It was never my intent to be anything other than a Queen.”

“Intentions often matter for little in this world. My intentions for taking the ring were good, yet look at the pain it has caused me. The same holds true for many of us.

“Intentions, Madame, so often fall by the wayside. All one is left with is life, no matter how hopeless that sometimes seems to be.”

Ariashal set the last of her bandage rolls on the table. The conversation had tired her immensely; she needed to rest. Herumor sensed the change in her.

“You must needs sleep, Madame. This has been too much excitement for you, I fear. Return to your bed. I will go and see how the King fares.”

She bid him farewell, watching as he noiselessly mounted the stairs. Alone again, she settled onto the bed, drawing the sheet over her against the cool dampness of the stone room.

“Ariashal?”

The King! Ariashal opened her eyes. She must have drifted off to sleep. “My lord?”

“Aye, tis me.” He knelt by her side. “Herumor has finished with me, and now tis time we tended you.”

Nodding, Ariashal sat up. The King offered his hand. She pulled herself to her feet and went to the table, where Herumor patiently waited.

“How are you?” she asked her husband.

“The wounds are healing nicely. Herumor claims that only the largest remain a concern, and I am inclined to agree. And even they have abated greatly.” He carefully helped her up onto the table. “And should you be similarly recovered, come morning we can take our leave of this place.”

Leave! Oh, yes, she wanted to leave; wanted, desperately, to go from this place and never return. She would see her children again, and her little carriage with its painted ceiling and velvet curtains. Leave? Never had a word sounded quite so delicious as leave.

“I want very much to leave here!”

“Aye, my Queen, so do we all. But all depends on you. Come, cousin,” he called to Herumor, “tis time to examine the Queen.”

Ariashal had taken to wearing simple robes that tied shut in front, so that the King could easily treat her wound. She quickly untied the laces, baring her stomach. The King deftly sliced the bandages, letting them fall onto the table.

For several moments he said nothing, a mere gentle tapping his only activity. “Tis healing well,” murmured the King. “It will still need treatment, but there is neither fester nor heat within. What think you, Herumor?”

“It is still deep, but it has closed cleanly. I think that the Queen should be well enough to travel.”

“Agreed! What think you, my Queen?”

“I think–I think that would be wonderful.”

“Splendid. Herumor, inform Adzuphel that we leave on the morrow. We will spend our last night here, and ride for Angmar in the morning.”

Herumor withdrew, permitting the King to bandage her alone. He slathered the wound with a soothing purple salve, careful not to get any on her clothes. Bandaging did not take too long, though to Ariashal it seemed an eternity as he unrolled the linen around her body. Finally he tied it off. “There. Allow me to help you.”

She let him guide her off the table, putting as little of her weight as possible on his arm. Knowing what she did of his injuries, she was unwilling to do anything which might have the slightest chance of harming him.

Herumor reappeared while the King was packing his box. “Adzuphel will ride for the camp. He will have the Queen’s carriage here in the morning, and the rest of the camp will be ready when we arrive.”

“Excellent.” The King locked the box with a simple spell. “What remains now is to decide what to do with you. I do not think it wise to let the people of Rhudaur know that there are two of us. They will be frightened enough as it is.”

“I have also considered this,” agreed Herumor. “Perhaps it will be best for you and the Queen to ride in her carriage, at least until we are well within Angmar. The children will ride with you.”

“Wisely said, though it might be best for the people to see that the princes live. Imrahil and Adrahil may ride their ponies, while the others stay with us.”

“Agreed. And I can take that yellow beast Tulkas of yours as a mount.”

“Tulkas?” asked Ariashal.

“Aye, Prince Imrahil named him,” explained Herumor. “Tis my fault, I suppose, for having him read so many things while he was convalescing. He chose Tulkas, for his color. I saw no harm in it.”

“Nay, and no harm be done by it,” agreed the King. “He–Tulkas-- is not all that bad. He is spirited, true, but no more so than any of the other horses we have had.”

“We have had some savages!”

The King laughed. “Aye, true enough. But this one is manageable, I assure you.”

Herumor snorted. “It will be good to have my own mount again. You and I differ somewhat, I fear, on the meaning of the word manageable.”

Ariashal thought immediately of Nardu, and could not quite stifle a giggle.

“Your Majesties.” Adzuphel waited upon the stairs.

“Greetings, my good man!” called the King. “I send you on a most pleasant journey.”

“Indeed.” He smiled at Ariashal. “It is good to see you up and about, Your Majesty. I must admit that there were many days when I feared for you.”

“I thank you,” she began. “But in truth, I must say that the news that we ride for home has been a greater balm for me than any other.”

“I should think so.” He turned to the King. “I have left food for you upstairs, enough for tonight and the morning. I shall be here with the carriage within an hour of sunrise.”

“Excellent well. Take care on your journey, my friend; for your wise counsel has been a boon to me for many years, and will be much needed in the days ahead.”

“Your Majesty is too kind. Farewell, then. I will see you on the morrow.”

Ariashal watched him ascend the stairs, his boots clicking on the stone. _Home_ , they seemed to say; _you are going home._


	51. Homeward Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

_**CHAPTER 51 Homeward Bound** _

As promised, the food left for them was upstairs. There was more than enough for the three of them; Adzuphel had, as usual, done his work thoroughly. As they finished the meal, conversation turned to the immediate future.

“Once we have safely crossed into Angmar,” began the King, “it would be wise, I think, for you to retrieve Gothmog.”

Herumor nodded. “That I will do. I will summon my beast and ride south. He has a small fortress near Mordor, I believe; it should not take much persuading to bring him north.”

“I do not want Gothmog only,” continued the King. “He will have assembled an army, and probably a settlement as well. All must be brought along.”

“All?”

“Aye, all. And promise gifts of gold and land to those who will come. Angmar is ever in need of productive folk.”

Ariashal thought for a moment. “Perhaps you should offer this to the people who once lived here, at this Keep.”

The King tapped the table. “No,” he said slowly, “I think not. I will be better served by giving them land in the new tower’s town. It will serve my purposes well to have a city there. This Keep has outlived its usefulness; I trust that they will tear it down.” He gently touched her hand. “Do not worry, my Queen. They will not disturb the crypts. Your family will sleep in safety.”

She looked up. “I–I had not thought on that. You are certain that they will be safe?”

“Quite certain. I know a few spells which no one will dare breach.”

“Perhaps,” offered Herumor, “It would be best if I cast those spells. Your strength is not yet at its zenith, and it would not be wise to exhaust yourself before our journey tomorrow.”

“Wisely put,” agreed the King. “You know well the spells of which I speak.”

“True, though I do not pretend to be as adept at them as you. Still, I trust that they will hold well enough.” He drained the last of his wine. “I must needs retire, for if I am to cast those spells I will need time to prepare.”

“Then we shall retire also.” The King stood. “Come, my Queen. We have much to do before tomorrow.”

Back in the safety of the secret room, Ariashal pondered their conversation. Gothmog would be coming, bringing an army. That would surely alarm some of the people who lived in the old land of Rhudaur. That there might be ordinary people, farmers and craftsmen along with their families traveling with them might not be enough to mollify the population. What if they were attacked? What then?

The King tried to soothe her fears. “Fear not, my Queen. Gothmog is an experienced general. He will not permit the line to fall prey to an attack.”

“But if he brings families--”

“I assure you, he will not fail them. He knows well enough the dangers of traveling. He will take pains to avoid being watched. If needs be, he will ride east of the mountains, only crossing when he is well away from the eyes of Cardolan.”

Sighing, she lay down upon the pillows. “I wish it had not come to this! I did not want a war.”

“Neither did I. Angmar is not strong enough to face a well-trained army like Cardolan’s. My troops are brave and loyal, true enough; but they are not yet many. And while the orcs will fight for me, even in their numbers they will be hard-pressed to defeat Cardolan. No, my Queen, war is not what I wanted.”

“And it cannot be prevented.”

“Not easily, no. After Ferion’s treachery and the death of the princes, the King of Cardolan will be in no mood to negotiate. Any embassy sent by me would likely face imprisonment, or worse. If we are fortunate, we can confine the enemy to engagement here, where the Hillmen will be best able to fight.”

“But what if they go over to Cardolan? What then?”

“After seeing what I did at the tower? Nay, my Queen. They will not betray me. For while tis a wondrous thing to be loved, oft it is best for a king that he be feared.”

“I do not fear you.”

Carefully he settled at her side, gently taking one of her hands in his. “Nay, my Queen. Never would I want that of you.”

She laid her head against his shoulder. Gently, tenderly, he lifted her face for a kiss.

“I thought I had lost you,” she whispered.

“And I you.” He drew her close, dropping his voice so she alone could hear. “Never have I felt such fear as when Ferion struck you. Nothing, not the years in Sauron’s dungeons, nor the torments he let loose at me, frightened me as much as that moment. And when I saw you, I knew that there was no time to waste. Losing you was more than I could bear.

“You are beautiful, my lady Queen,” he murmured, “far more beautiful than I ever dared to hope; far lovelier than I ever dreamed. I never ordered my artists to paint your likeness, for I feared that their work would ruin the image I had made for myself. But I promise you that as soon as we return home I will have your portrait made for me, that I might always gaze upon your beauty.”

Ariashal laid her head against his chest; her heart was too full for her to speak.

“Mamma! Papa!”

Shouting gleefully, the children swarmed into the carriage. Ariashal fell back against the King as their excited children clambered aboard, shouting and talking at once. In the rush to reach their mother, one of them accidentally struck Ariashal’s abdomen, just above the wound. Pain shot through her; she could not help but cry out.

“Be still!” ordered the King.

Instantly the children fell silent, frozen in place.

He gently touched her stomach. “Are you well?”

“I--”she glanced at her anxious children. “Yes,” she said, finally. “I am well.”

“Your mother is still unwell,” admonished the King. “Her body is not to be touched, lest you harm her again.”

Silenced, chastised, the children quietly moved forward. Ariashal gathered them to her. They were all here, ready to leave for home, just as Adzuphel had promised. Their hair was combed, their clothes neat; their nurses had done their work well. Even little Thabadan was clean and neat.

“Have you all been behaving?” she asked.

“Yes,” they answered.

“And eating as you should?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She smiled at them “That is the best medicine yet.”

“We are ready to return home,” said the King. “However, your mother is still unwell, and the road ahead is long. So you will ride in here with us.”

“I thought we could ride our ponies!” protested Adrahil.

“Aye, and you will. You and Imrahil will ride behind Herumor for a few days.”

“But why are you staying in here with mother?” asked Imrahil.

“Do you remember what Herumor told you in the Keep?”

Imrahil nodded. “He said that you were hurt, and that I had to pretend to be king.”

“Yes,” agreed the King, “and you played your part well. But your mother still needs my care, so I must ride in here with her. Now you and your brother will ride with Herumor, while he pretends to be king.”

“I like it better when you are king,” said Imrahil.

“I am here now, and all will be well. You will obey Herumor as you ride. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said the princes in unison.

“Excellent. Zimraphel, you and the little ones will ride in here with us.”

“I want a pony too!” Zimraphel pouted.

“Not yet,” soothed Ariashal. “You are too small to ride the whole way and will get too tired. You are better off in here.”

“But--”

“You will ride in here,” said the King firmly. “Your mother will need your help with the little ones.”

Zimraphel sat down, snuggling next to her mother’s legs.

“Your Majesty,” called Adzuphel, “the princes’ ponies are ready. All waits upon your command.”

“Excellent well. Listen, my sons. You will ride with Herumor, and you will obey him. Go now, and make me proud.”

The princes slipped from the carriage. Ariashal watched as they mounted, gathered their reins, and urged their ponies over to where Herumor and the pale stallion waited.

The King nodded at Adzuphel, who closed the door before waving one hand at the driver. With a sudden lurch, the carriage began to roll. Ariashal caught Lalwen before she fell, setting her down on the carpeted floor.

Behind them the whole of their entourage fell into line. She caught quick glimpses of Adzuphel on his bright bay mare, galloping off towards the wagons, or coming back up the line. Angmarim banners swirled over the marching troops, red and black sharp against the sky. Wolves trotted alongside the troops, occasionally breaking away from the mass of men to dart into the brush. Far to the rear came the wagons, a great cloud of dust hanging in the air behind them.

In front she could see the boys on their ponies. Imrahil rode tall and proud, his back straight. Adrahil rode next to his brother, his head held high. In front of them were some guards, their livery shimmering in the sun. Ahead of them she could see the white tail and pale yellow coat of Tulkas, Herumor’s mount. The black robes and rich caparisons of the king stood out starkly against the stallion’s coat. Perhaps, she mused, the King should keep the animal as his mount; the contrast was vivid and impressive.

“Pleased that we are finally on our way?”

Ariashal started at his voice. “Yes,” she managed. “I have waited for this for a long time.”

The King shifted closer. “I worried that the children might harm you.”

“They meant me no harm,” she smiled.

“True, but still I feared that their exuberance might overtax you.”

“No,” she laughed. “That is a burden I can always bear.”

“Very well. Perhaps you should rest now.”

“All right,” she said, sitting back. She glanced down at Lalwen, slumped in a little heap. “I think that the children have fallen asleep.”

“Have they? Good. They were probably made tired by the excitement of the morning.”

She laid her head against him. “There were times when I feared I would not live to see this day.”

“Aye, Madame, well do I know your feelings.”

“Not all of them.” She sighed. “When I first saw the old Keep, I could not help but think of my last time there. I never thought that I would not see my father again, nor that my brother would prove so cruel. It holds no pleasant memories for me now.”

“It will not stand long. Adzuphel has given the Hillmen permission to dismantle it for the stone, that they may build walls for the new town. Once they begin the walls, it will only be a matter of time.”

Something from last night occurred to her. “Did Herumor cast the spells?”

“The spells of protection? Aye, Madame. He tells me that all the crypts have been secured. None will enter them now.”

“Do you--”– she let her voice trail off.

“Do I what, my Queen?”

She toyed with her robe. “I do not know how to tell you this. I–I fear that someday someone might try to summon me to use against you, much as you summoned the men from the tombs.” She looked up at him. “My lord, never do I wish to be a weapon used against you. I can not bear the thought that someone might do so.”

“Is that what has troubled you?”

“Yes,” she admitted. Tears rolled down her face. “When I saw that you had summoned the dead from the tombs, I knew that someone, somewhere, would try to cast the same spell against you. And I fear that they might use me as a weapon against you.”

“I do not think that anyone would dare do that.”

“But you have said that some of the others are not so kind. They might--”

“None of the others would dare do such a thing,” he interrupted, “for they would not want to face my wrath. No, they will never do that.”

“But there are other sorcerers, are there not? What of them? And there is no way to predict what might come to pass.”

“True, my Queen,” he soothed. “But you must not despair. There are many spells in this world, some stronger than anything which some could imagine.”

She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Could they even withstand–Sauron?”

He drew a long breath. “Long ago, when still I dwelt in Numenor, there was a Maia who visited us. Olorin was his name. He taught me many spells, some far more powerful than Men were supposed to be able to use. And one of those was a spell of protection. Once cast, woe betide the fool who attempts to breach it!”

“Would you do that for me?”

He gently gathered her close. “For you, my lady queen, I would do anything, if it pleased you.”

She settled against him. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Though there is one boon I must needs ask of you.”

“What?”

“Delay the need for the spell as long as possible.”

She laughed. “Do not fear, my lord! I have no desire to be quit of you yet.”

“Nor do I believe I will ever tire of you. Ah, Ariashal! Tis a good thing, to be returning home.”

Home.

Of all the places she had lived, Carn Dum was the least hospitable. Heavy snows, cold winters; strong winds; wild, lonely mountains; trolls and other creatures wandering the town. And yet it was there where she now belonged, ruling the snows and the wilds, the creatures unwanted and unloved by the world. Never, not in Rhudaur nor Cardolan, had she ever felt so much a part of a place.

She had often lived in places as the wife of a lord, but never really belonged there; the land was her husbands’, never hers. As the Queen of Angmar she had come to belong to the country, its wilds and lands, harsh though they might be. And it was here that she had found the love that had always eluded her.

She settled back against the King. “Yes, my lord,” she agreed, “home is indeed a good thing.”

-30-


	52. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariashal of Rhudaur is the unwitting lynchpin of her father's machinations with the Witch-King of Angmar. And she's cursed, too. Work in progress. Rated Adult for consensual BDSM, violence, torture, and mature themes. Yes, it's now finished!!!!

Epilogue

 

 

 

The gates of Carn Dûm were open, ready to accept the entry of the King and Queen. Ariashal leaned against the seat of her carriage, the children clustered at the windows. They would be following the King on Tulkas. The palomino’s white tail shimmered against the rich black and red trappings. Golden trim glittered in the late autumn sun, outlining the horses’ bardings, Ariashal’s gown, the scales of the King’s parade armor.

The journey back from Rhudaur had been long and slow. They had stopped at every town and village, and at what often seemed to be every stream and farm. The King was so worried about her she was not permitted to leave the carriage for days, emerging only when they reached the safety of the small fort at the old border. She was relieved to be inside the fort, and even more pleased when she discovered that they could provide a bath.

And then it was back to her carriage, to the children and their little games, to the quiet strength of the King. She had depended on his strength more than ever, relying on him to tend her wounds and distract the children when they grew too rambunctious. He did not take over from Herumor until they were only a few days away from Carn Dûm.

Herumor. She guessed he must be in Mordor by now, attempting to rally Gothmog to the Angmarim cause. The King had said little about Gothmog, only that he was a valiant and great warrior. But he had also said little about Herumor, permitting her to meet him and decide for herself whether or not she liked and trusted him. She would have to do the same with Gothmog, although she doubted that the King would encourage his coming to Angmar if he were untrustworthy. Certainly he had extended no such invitation to Khamûl.

Trumpets sounded on the walls. Orcs and trolls pounded drums. With a last blast from the heralds, the army began the entry to the city. Ariashal watched as the Trolls led the way, beating drums that were bigger than she was. Behind them marched the orcs, divided by clans; their different colored banners swirling in the breeze. Wolves trotted alongside, gaily waving their tails aloft.

Another blast sounded from the walls. Men moved out, first the regular soldiers, then the members of the King’s Guard. Imrahil’s pony nervously tossed his head. She watched her son pat his neck reassuringly, talking all the while. Adrahil’s pony stood quietly, only occasionally swishing his tail. Ariashal had wanted them in the carriage with her. But the King had insisted they ride into the city with him, both to show the people that they were indeed well, and to demonstrate that they had nothing to fear. To placate the little ones, she gave them each a bag of coins to toss at the crowd as they rode by. She hoped that they did not run out, or harm someone with a badly-aimed throw.

Drums thundered into life. Tulkas reared, snorting. The King brought him under control, sending the prancing stallion toward the gates. Both princes urged their ponies on, and the chestnuts obediently fell into place. The carriage jerked suddenly into movement. Lalwen fell against her brother, spilling some coins onto the floor. Ariashal steadied the two of them, while Zimraphel quietly swept up the coins.

Blasting from trumpets echoed off the stone walls as they entered their city. Outside the roar of the crowd was deafening; Ariashal could not hear whatever it was Lalwen was saying to her. She could see people rushing towards the King, tossing flowers onto the ground before him. Smiling, waving, the Princes rode behind their father. Ariashal nudged the children. Giggling, they flung coins into the seething masses lining the route.

Slowly the carriage trundled along the road. Everyone in Carn Dûm–indeed, everyone in Angmar–seemed to have gathered for the parade, for a chance to glimpse their King and Queen. Never had Ariashal seen such a crowd; neither her arrival here so long ago, nor their leave-taking for Rhudaur, brought out so many. She wondered how much the general populace knew about the events in Rhudaur. Did they realize how close they had come to losing their King?

So thick was the crowd along the parade route that the guards had to occasionally force people back to allow her carriage to pass. The children could practically hand coins to people. Ariashal was not too worried; the people of Carn Dûm were genuinely glad to see her, and they would wish no harm on her children. But there could still be accidents, and so she kept a close eye on them as they distributed their largesse.

The crowds spread out into the many plazas. Surrounding the open space were many small shops, and still more merchant stalls had been set up, selling refreshments and trinkets. The festive atmosphere infected the city: everywhere were draped Angmarian banners, ribbons, flowers. Even the water of the plaza’s fountains splashed gold in the autumn sun.

Ahead loomed the long, winding road to the castle. Ariashal urged the children to finish passing out their coins, despite the fact they were tiring of the task. They ran out of copper just as they reached the gate at the base of the road. Ariashal took the empty bags from them, folding them neatly for Adzuphel. Exhausted, the children climbed down from the windows and settled against her. Before the carriage reached the top of the hill, they were fast asleep.

Ariashal was only too glad to send the children off with their nurses as she prepared for the evening’s feast. Her warm bath was glorious, the ministrations of her women delightful. Never had she enjoyed getting such treatment more than now; she had come so close to losing it all, to never seeing her women or her home again. She did nothing but smile as they fussed over her hair, her lips, her dress. It was good to be cared for by people who liked her, who wanted her to be at her best, instead of whatever ghastly creatures Ferion would have dredged up might prefer. She could pity such women now, when she was in no danger of being at their mercy.

She had longed to spend the afternoon with her King, but Adzuphel had far too much work awaiting the royal signature for that to happen. After long days of riding home, followed by hours parading in armor beneath a hot sun, the King was to be rewarded with crises and complainants. If only she could be there, to help him with his heavy burden! But he would not have her involved in affairs of state, so she could do nothing but wait for the feast to see him again. She knew Adzuphel would at least ensure he had time to shed the armor before dealing with supplicants.

Nurses brought her news of the children. Imrahil wanted very badly to attend the state dinner, but Ariashal thought better of it. State dinners were long affairs, and he had already ridden in a hot parade. He needed to stay with the others and eat in the cool quiet of the nursery. He could attend another state dinner, when there was no parade beforehand.

The hairdressers arrived, ready to turn her loose, thick mane into elegant braids. She willingly settled in a soft chair, thoughts drifting as they began their task. Thabadan and Lalwen were awed by their new home, with its magnificent furnishings and spectacular view of the mountains. Her own children were simply glad to be back among their own things, even if Imrahil was disappointed about the evening. They were safely home now, where no evil could befall them.

They robed her in her favorite state gown, magnificent blue velvet heavily embroidered with gold. She wore her crown, for she must play the Queen for the distinguished guests. Her most elaborate jewelry was brought out, earrings checked, perfume applied. With a smile she left her women, meeting the King at the door for the procession to the feast.

He waited amidst his guards, wearing the rich robes with the grand, dagged sleeves, their red satin lining and brilliant gold trim stunning against the unrelieved black of the robe. The tall crown held his hooded mask in place. She knew, now, why the mask was so important, why he kept his identity hidden, why she must guard against ever betraying his trust.

“Your gown is gorgeous,” he murmured, taking her hand. “Are you ready for the task at hand?”

“Yes, my Lord.” She smiled at him. “I trust you got some respite from your visitors.”

“Not nearly enough.” They paused before the great hall, waiting while the guards took their place for the procession. “After all this is through, I intend to soak in my bath.” Before he could say anything else, the musicians struck up their fanfare. Taking a deep breath, she entered the room, her hand buried in his.

It seemed to Ariashal that the feast would last forever.

The cooks had gone to great lengths preparing various Royal favorites, and of course each dish had to be paraded before the King and Queen. Ariashal smiled at the servants, gaily clad in red and gold, hauling heavy gold and silver platters of food around the room. She watched with satisfaction the looks of awe on the faces of their guests. Among them, she knew, was an ambassador from Arthedain. He would take back stories of the King of Angmar’s wealth and might, enough to dispel any thoughts of attack from the king at Fornost.

Ariashal had not seen a feast like this in some time. Speeches were made, welcoming them back to their home; songs were sung, both by trained professionals and guests in varying stages of inebriation. Some people danced, but she preferred to stay by the King. An idea had come to her. The longer the evening wore on, the more impatient she was to implement it. Would the feast never end?

At long last the King stood. For a moment the room fell silent. “I bid you all welcome to my house,” he said. “But the evening grows late, and my Queen and I must retire. End not these celebrations, for the sound of our people’s merriment is ever pleasing to us.”

Amid shouts of “Long live the King!” they made their way from the hall.

Outside her door he took his leave. “The day has been long, my Queen, and I know well that you have need of rest.”

“Very well,” she said, and obediently went in to her women.

Once inside she had them leisurely remove her jewelry, makeup, gown. They dressed her in a sheer green chemise, which she quickly covered with a belted robe. She bade them goodnight and left her rooms.

The King’s guards saluted her as she approached. “Do not announce me,” she ordered. “I wish to surprise him.”

For a moment she thought she saw a grin on one of their normally stern faces. She slipped through the grand doors, closing them silently behind her.

Adzuphel stood alone in the main chambers, carefully laying out the King’s night clothes. He glanced up at the sudden rush of air from the door. Ariashal laid a finger to her lips, silencing him before he could speak.

He understood, instantly, what she wanted. With a quick toss of his head he indicated the way to the great baths, where the King relaxed. She smiled at him before stealthily padding off. It was not too much farther, now; and anyway the dim light which the King preferred suited her purpose.

At the entrance to the baths she paused to get her bearings. She saw a wine goblet at the edge of the black tub, with the familiar odd refractions rippling the water alongside it. Good. She made her way behind the King, untying the belt and letting both chemise and heavy robe fall to the floor alongside the golden goblet.

The slight noise roused him. “Who is there? Adzuphel?”

“No, my Lord,” she breathed, kneeling beside him.

“Ariashal? What are you doing here? I thought you asleep.”

“No, my lord.” She carefully eased into the water. It was warm, pleasantly so, almost like stepping into a vat of sun-warmed liquid silk. “I could not sleep for need of you.”

“I see.” He gently pulled her to him. For a moment he held her close. “And just what is it you need?”

She kissed him. “I think you know.”

He ran one hand down her back. “Yes, I think I might have some idea.” As carefully as he could he lifted her into his lap. “Will this suffice?”

“Yes,” she whispered, slowly lowering herself onto him, her fingers dug deeply into his shoulders. “Oh, yes.”

“The water grows cold.”

Ariashal shifted against his body. “I do not mind.”

“Ahh, but I mind for you.” Pulling free of her grasp, he climbed from the tub. “Tis cold in this room, and you have been too ill lately to risk a chill. Come, my Queen. There are many towels here.”

Reluctantly Ariashal sloshed from the tub. It was cold in here. She grabbed a towel from the neat stack and quickly dried herself.

“You will stay here tonight,” said the King, drawing on his dressing robe. “It is too late for you to wander the halls.”

“And if I refuse?” she asked as she wrapped her hair in a towel.

“It is a royal command.”

“Then I suppose I have no choice but to obey.” Smiling, she pulled on the heavy robe before retrieving her chemise.

“That is correct.” He caught her hand in his. “And I fully intend to imprison you here at least until morning.”

“And I suppose it is useless to protest?” She kissed his hands.

“That is also correct.” He helped her onto the bed. “Now, do you intend to behave, or must I restrain you?”

“Hmmm.” She stretched across the black velvet covers. “I suppose I will obey you.”

“That is wise.” Drawing the bedclothes aside, he settled onto the bed. “Quickly, my Queen. Come to me before you do get a chill.”

Willingly she crawled over to him, shedding the robe as she went. There would be no need for it beneath the velvet coverings. She found some pillows and settled against them.

“And now, my fair prisoner,” he murmured, “tis time we discussed your punishment.”

“Are you well?”

“What?” Ariashal started. “Of course! Why do you ask?”

“You are being quiet.” He drew her near. “I feared that in my eagerness I had been too rough with you, and you had been injured.”

“No, my lord!” she laughed. She leaned against him, secure in his strength. “Oh, no. No, it is just that I feared I would never see this place again. I feared I would never again know such peace.”

“All is now well. You are home, and safe, and our enemies are far away.”

“I know,” she sighed. “ I wish it could be peaceful like this forever.”

“For you, my lady queen, I will make it thus. I swear to you that no harm shall ever befall you here.”

She said nothing. In the distance a wolf howled. The long, wailing cry was picked up by others, until at last the wolf in the garden below raised its head to sing.

“You hear them? Even they swear that you will be safe.”

“And I believe them.” She kissed him. “And I will do all I can to keep you safe, my lord.”

“All is settled, then. We have no choice but to remain together, that we might protect one another.”

Ariashal snuggled against him, his arm drawn protectively over her shoulders. Safe in the arms of her Witch-King, the Queen of Angmar slept.


End file.
